“The first boy, the Tibetan did Jahantsi say who he thought he was? Who he claims to be?”
“Only some sort of Saviour, sir. A Buddha. You’d have to ask Jahantsi himself.”
Ungern Sternberg’s features were set hard. A long vein in his forehead throbbed, pulse by pulse. Sepailov could not look him in the eyes.
“What sort of Buddha? Didn’t Jahantsi say? Come on, man!
What did he say?”
“I ... I ...” Sepailov stammered. How many men he had killed with his bare hands, but Ungern could make him stammer like a schoolboy still.
“Well?”
“I can’t remember, sir. Something .. . something beginning with “M”, I think.”
“Maidari? Was that it? The Maidari Buddha? Come on!”
“Yes. Yes, I think that’s it, sir. I’m sure it is. But you’ll have to ask Jahantsi. He knows.”
“Very well. Tell Jahantsi I want to see him. Right away. Make sure he understands. I don’t care if he’s in Council or what he’s doing, just get him here. And tell him I want to see the Bogdo Khan tonight.”
“The Khutukhtu?”
“Yes, the Khutukhtu. In private. In his palace. Tonight.”
“Very well.” Sepailov rose to go.
“Sit down,” snapped Ungern.
“I haven’t finished yet.”
Sepailov sat hurriedly.
“I’m sorry, I .. .”
“Send a message to Kazantsev. Go to the radio station yourself and send the message in person. Make sure they bring Kazantsev to the other end.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell him to initiate a search for these boys and the man with them.
He’s to put every man on it he can spare. Make sure he understands.
Good men. Mongols, Tibetans, Burials. No Russians.
Understand?”
“Yes, sir. Is that the whole message, sir?”
“No. Tell him I want the boys killed. Keep the man alive if possible. But kill the boys. I don’t care if he has to kill every youngster between here and Uliassutai, just as long as he makes sure the boys are dead. The Tibetan child above all. Make your instructions clear. You can go.”
Sepailov rose again, saluted, and turned.
“And Sepailov ...”
“Yes, sir?”
“Tell Kazantsev I want the head. He’s to send the boy’s head to me. Be sure about that. He can stuff it with straw or anything he likes. But I want the head.”
“Yes, sir. The head. Very good, sir. I’ll tell him.” This was more like it. Heads he could understand. Heads he could relate to. All this other mumbo-jumbo just made him bilious. He would tell Kazantsev about the head.
Sepailov lifted the flap of the yurt and went outside. His hands were shaking. He hadn’t seen Ungern as angry in months. He took a deep breath and walked away. The thought of heads had made him restless. He hoped there would be an execution before bed-time.
“Will he come?”
“Yes,” said Chindamani.
“He will come.”
“Why?”
“Because I have asked him to. He cannot refuse me.”
Christopher got up from his seat and went to the window. He and Chindamani were sitting in a faded downstairs room belonging to Urga’s old Russian consulate building, roughly midway between Ta Khure and Mai-mai-ch’eng. The consulate consisted of a large, two-storey building built from wood and plaster, topped by an iron roof. Immediately beside it stood the house chapel, with a small cupola.
The consul and his staff had fled months ago, leaving behind a priest, two dogs, a caretaker, and the old Russian cemetery a wasteland of rubble, unmarked graves, and inconstant weeds.
They had met the priest, Father Anton, on their way to the city.
Winterpole had engaged him in conversation, regaling him with stories of his meetings with Father John Sergiev of Kronstadt, the famed spiritual healer at the naval base guarding St. Petersburg.
They found that they had friends and books in common, although Christopher suspected that much of Winterpole’s familiarity with Russian Orthodoxy was little more than bluff. Bluff or not, it was enough to secure them the friendship of the old priest.
He brought them to share his rather primitive quarters at the consulate. He himself lived in an icon-lined room in the west wing of the ground floor, but he gave them rooms on the first floor, more luxurious apartments that had belonged to the departed diplomats.
The building had been looted shortly after the consul and his people left, and the rooms were all but devoid of furniture or trappings. But Father Anton had access to meagre stores in a little cellar. He brought them a battered samovar and plates, musty bedding, and lamps with oil. For all its roughness, their situation seemed a special comfort to them, luxury after so much hardship.
There was black tea for the samovar and charcoal to burn in an iron stove at night when it grew cold, and in the mornings sunlight would lie like warm oil on their sheets.
Winterpole was upstairs writing some sort of report, though God knows how he intended to transmit it to anyone. Christopher and Chindamani were waiting for a man to arrive from the city, a monk to whom Chindamani had sent a message via the caretaker on the previous day. Tsering had originally been a trapa at Dorjela, but a few years earlier he had travelled to Urga to study at the mampa tat sang the medical college of Urga.
“Can he be trusted?” Christopher asked.
“Yes, Ka-ris To-feh, he can be trusted. More than Wan Ta-po upstairs.”
She still found the name “Winterpole’ unpronounceable.
“What is his name?”
“Tsering. Tsering Gyaltsen. There were two brothers at Dorjela, Tsering and Tsewong. Tsewong was at Dorje-la until a little time before you came.”
Christopher looked round at her. In the yard outside, yellow dust was blowing in all directions.
“I’ve heard of Tsewong before,” he said.
“At Kalimpong, in India.”
Gently, he explained to her what he knew of the circumstances of Tsewong’s death. But he did not mention the silver cross that Martin Cormac had found hidden on him.
Just as he finished, there was a knock on the door. Christopher opened it to find the caretaker waiting for him.
“The man you ask for here,” he said in stilted Tibetan.
“He ask you come outside. Not come in.”
Chindamani joined Christopher and together they stepped out of the room. In the passage, crows flew in and out through broken windows. One of the two dogs, a great fawn creature with a spotted back, ran backwards and forwards, growling aimlessly. In his palace of icons, Father Anton sang in a cracked voice, antiphonal refrains to a Palestinian virgin.
A young lama was standing awkwardly by the outer door. Dust blew in through a window and swirled around his feet. He moved from one leg to the other restlessly, unable to keep still. Tsering was narrow-faced and intellectual looking, thin and ascetic like all monks, yet honed to it by more than prayer or fasting.
Chindamani greeted him formally. He flushed and bowed deeply, then advanced and presented her with a khata scarf, which she accepted with a smile.
“I have no scarf to give you in return,” she said.
“It is enough for me to be in your presence again,” he said, keeping his head bowed.
“And I am very pleased to see you,” she replied.
“Do you have a scarf to give my friend Ka-ris To-feh? He is the son of the Dorje Lama. You must treat him with respect.”
The young man lifted his head and produced a second scarf, which he proceeded to place in Christopher’s outstretched arms.
Chindamani passed the scarf she had just been given to Christopher, and he laid it in his turn on Tsering’s wrists. The monk bowed even more deeply and remained standing, waiting for permission to move.
“Please come inside and talk with us,” said Chindamani.
“I would prefer to stay here,” Tsering said.
“Very well. Let us stay here. Have you done what I asked you to do?”
The lama nodded. His head moved on a stalk of a neck like a bird snapping for seeds. He was dressed in the usual drab weeds of a lama, but lacked the downtrodden, resigned look so many of them presented to the world. Whatever the source of his asceticism, it had little to do with disgust for life.
A yellow robe is no guarantee against humanity. The words came unbidden into Christopher’s head. Hadn’t that been what Martin Cormac said, referring to this man’s brother?
“What have you discovered?” she asked.
“First, I have something to show you, with your permission,” the monk said.
He indicated something lying on the ground a few yards from his feet. It was a small leather bag stitched roughly with cord. He picked it up and handed it to Christopher without saying a word.
He felt it in his hand, slightly spherical, somewhat uneven, and quite heavy.
“Open it,” he said. Christopher did as asked, unfastening the clumsy knots tying the neck. The leather fell away, revealing the small head of a child, the face twisted and smeared with blood.
Mercifully, the eyes were closed, but Christopher almost dropped the gruesome object in shock.
Chindamani came to Christopher’s side and looked.
“Is it Samdup?” Christopher asked, uncertain whether or not he recognized the dead face.
Chindamani shook her head.
“No,” she whispered.
“It is not Samdup.”
She turned to Tsering.
“Where did you get this?”
“The Russian general Ungern Sternberg has filled a room with heads like this. All boys of Dorje Samdup Rinpoche’s age. He knows he is here. He is looking for him.”
Christopher replaced the head in the bag and retied the cords that held it. He wondered where to put it. For a moment, he felt more absurd than horrified.
“Can you help us find him before he does?” she asked.
“I think so. One of my friends at the mampa tat sang belongs to a revolutionary club started a few years ago by a man called Sukebator. This friend confides in me because I am a Tibetan and because he thinks I hold more liberal views than most. For several days now, he has been excited about something, although he won’t say exactly what it is.
“However, he did tell me something that seemed important.
“Ungern is collecting heads,” he said.
“He’s looking for a boy, a khubilgan, but he won’t find him. The boy is safe, but Ungern won’t know until it’s too late.” He told me where the heads had been thrown, and I managed to take the one I showed you. There was no guard, they had just been thrown into the room to rot. I brought it to you as proof that my friend’s story is true.”
“What is a khubilgan?” asked Christopher.
“It’s the Mongol term for a trulka,” Tsering said. His voice had a fresh quality to it, its rhythms less stilted than those Christopher had observed in other Tibetan monks.
“There’s no difference really.
But my friend said “khubilgan gegen”, meaning an enlightened incarnation, so I knew he was referring to someone of very high rank. Someone like the Maidari Buddha.”
“And did your friend tell you where this boy is being kept?”
Tsering shook his head.
“No. But I believe I know where this revolutionary club meets.
There is a large yurt just off one of the smaller alleyways in Ta Khure. I’ve seen my friend near there several times. If that is their centre, they may be holding the Lord Samdup there.”
Christopher pondered. It sounded as if Tsering was right and that the boy was here in Urga, waiting for Zamyatin to make his move.
“Did your friend say anything about another child, another incarnation?
A pee-ling incarnation?”
“I do not understand. Do you mean a trulku like the Dorje Lama?”
“Yes. He is the Dorje Lama’s grandson. He is my son.”
The lama shook his head again.
“No,” he said.
“He mentioned only a khubilgan. I think he meant a Tibetan. He said nothing about a. pee-ling trulku. I’m sorry.”
Chindamani took his hand and held it tightly.
“He will be there, Ka-ris, I’m sure of it. Please don’t worry.”
He pressed her hand in return.
“I know,” he said.
“But I’m becoming anxious now that we’re so close.”
He turned to Tsering.
“When can we take a look at what’s going on in this part?”
“It must be soon. We don’t have much time.”
“Why not?”
“The Lady Chindamani will explain.”
Christopher looked at her, puzzled.
Chindamani’s face grew serious. She bit her lip gently.
“It’s a prophecy, Ka-ris. The Maidari Buddha must appear on the Festival of Parinirvana.”
“Parinirvana?”
“The final entry of the Lord Buddha into nirvana, the state of heavenly bliss. The festival commemorates the day of his earthly death.”
“What does this prophecy say?”
She looked at Tsering, then back at Christopher.
“It says that the Buddha of the new age must appear on the day the last Buddha passed out of this world. They are one person.
The Buddha who entered nirvana must now return from bliss for the salvation of men. It says that he will return to earth in the Maidari Temple at Urga.”
“And if he fails to appear there on that day?”
She hesitated.
“He will have to die in order to be reborn yet again,” she said.
“If he is not proclaimed, he will return to the state of nirvana, where he will choose a new human vehicle for his next incarnation.”
“But if Samdup doesn’t appear this year, why can’t he do so next year?
Or the year after?”
She shook her head. A crow flew past her in a cloud of dust, its wings black and tattered.
“It must be this year,” she said. Her voice was low, almost a whisper.
“Do you remember,” she continued, ‘when you were in Dorje-la, your father told you of another prophecy?
“When Dorjela is ruled by a.pee-ling, the world shall be ruled from Dorje-la.”
He nodded. He remembered.
“Did your father tell you of another verse?”
Christopher thought.
“Yes,” he said.
“It referred to the son of a pee-ling’s son. He thought it referred to William.”
She smiled at him.
“I think he was right,” she said.
“The verse reads: “In the year that the son of a pee-ling’s son comes to the Land of Snows, in that year shall Maidari appear. He shall be the last abbot of Dorje-la, and the greatest.” Now do you understand? Now do you see why it must be this year?”
Christopher was silent. He stared at her, at a long bar of dust flecked sunlight that straddled her face, at a wisp of hair that fell, black as an omen, across her cheek. Behind her, the thin monk stood among the shadows, his eyes fixed on Christopher. He felt like a plaything, passed from hand to hand, chased hither and thither by forces beyond his reckoning.
“When is this Festival?” he asked.
“You said it would be soon.
Are we in time?”
Her eyes held his. At the end of the passage, a crow cawed and flapped its wings.
“Tomorrow,” she said.
“It begins at dawn tomorrow.”
It was dark when they reached Ta Khure. An uneasy darkness, edged with fear. In the streets, corpses lay exposed for the dogs, pillows beneath their heads, prayer-books in their cold hands, waiting. It was the custom.
On Tsering’s advice, they had walked from the consulate rather than draw attention to themselves by riding. Winterpole had not wanted to come at first, but Christopher had insisted he
accompany them. He did not trust him on his own.
Gradually, the walls of the sacred city had enfolded them as they made their way through the tangled maze of silent alleyways towards the centre. The temples were full of chanting and the flickering of lamps. Everywhere, monks were preparing themselves for tomorrow’s festival. In the larger streets, pilgrims still walked or hobbled or crawled towards the Khutukhtu’s winter palace.
It was not clear to them how Tsering found his way through the dark lanes of the Khure without a light; but he seemed not to falter, as though possessed of eyes akin to those of an owl or a cat.
The festival moon had not yet risen, and the faint light of the stars made little impression in the cramped and narrow alleys down which they wound their slow and uncertain way.
Tsering and Christopher went in front, with Chindamani and Winterpole watching their rear. On their way to Ta Khure, Christopher explained to the monk the circumstances of his brother’s death. He kept from him the fact that Tsewong had been a Christian convert, that he had died wearing a silver crucifix that had once belonged to Christopher’s father. Not to the abbot of Dorjela, thought Christopher, but to my father, who really died all those years ago in the snows beyond the Nathu-la.
“I don’t know why he killed himself,” Christopher admitted.
“He left no message, no clues. Perhaps the missionary with whom he stayed would know. But he denied all knowledge of your brother.”
“Yes,” said Tsering.
“That is what I expected: that he would deny him in the end.”
“I don’t understand. You speak as if you knew him. As if you knew Carpenter.”
Tsering nodded, a dim shape in the gathering dusk.
“I knew him, yes. He once came to Dorje-la. Didn’t you know that?
About six years ago, a year or so before I left Tibet to study here.
Perhaps he came again the Lady Chindamani would know.”
“I’ve never spoken about him to her. Why did he come to Dorjela?”
The monk paused, slackening his pace.
“He had heard I do not know where that the abbot of Dorjela was a pee-ling, that he had once been a Christian. Perhaps he thought the abbot was still a Christian, that he was some sort of missionary like himself- I don’t know. Anyway, he came to us at the height of summer, asking to be granted admission to the gompa.
The Ninth Buddha Page 39