The Ninth Buddha (19 page)

The old man was growing visibly weaker.
 
Not only physically, but in his mind.
 
His will-power was slackening, and the boy knew he was near the point of surrender.
 
Several times he had had to rouse Tobchen from a reverie or a sleep out of which he did not want to be wakened.
 
Sometimes they climbed up into banks of freezing cloud, where everything was blotted out in the all consuming whiteness.
 
He felt that the old man wanted to walk on into the cloud and disappear, so he held his hand tightly and willed him to go on.
 
Without him, he would be lost forever.

“Will the Lady Chindamani come to Gharoling, Tobchen?”
 
he asked.

The old man sighed.

“I do not think so, my lord.
 
Pema Chindamani must remain at Dorje-la.

That is her peflace.”

“But she said we would meet again.”

“If she said it, it will happen.”

“But not at Gharoling?”

“I do not know, lord.”

And the old man continued to plod on into the blizzard, muttering the words of the mantra, om mam pad me hum, like an old woman ploughing in her field.
 
Yes, that was it.
 
He was just like an old woman ploughing.

He lost the old man on the seventh day, early, between waking and first halt.
 
There was no warning.
 
Tobchen had gone in front as usual, into a bank of cloud, telling the boy to follow slowly.
 
At first all had seemed normal, then the cloud had lifted and the way ahead was empty.
 
On his left, a sheer precipice plunged away from the path, its lower depths hidden in cloud.
 
He called the old man’s name loudly, pleadingly, for over an hour, but only dull echoes answered him.
 
A ray of sunlight bounced off the peak of the tall mountain opposite.
 
Suddenly Samdup felt terribly alone.

He was ten years old.
 
Tobchen said he was many centuries old, but here, trapped in snow and mist, he felt no more than a child.

Without the old man, he knew he was finished.
 
He had no idea which way to turn: ahead or back, it was all the same to him.
 
The mountains seemed to mock him.
 
Even if he was centuries old, what was that to them?
 
Only the gods were older than they.

He carried enough food in his bag to last him for about two days, if he was frugal.
 
If only he could see the chorten or a prayer flag or hear the sound of a temple-horn in the distance.
 
But all he saw were pinnacles of ice and all he heard was the wind rising.

He spent the night in the dark crying, because he was cold and alone and frightened.
 
He wished he had never left Dorje-la Gompa, that he was there now with Pema Chindamani and his other friends.
 
No-one had asked him if he wanted to be a trulku.
 
They had just come to his parents’ house seven years ago and put him through some tests and told him who he was.
 
He had liked living with his parents.
 
True, it was nothing near so grand as life in his lab rang at Dorje-la, but nobody had made him study or expected him to sit through long ceremonials, dressed in silk and fidgeting.

When the night ended, the world was shrouded in mist.
 
He stayed where he was, feeling the damp seep into his bones, afraid to move in case there was another precipice.
 
He knew he was going to die, and in his childish way he resented it.
 
Death was no stranger to him, of course.
 
He had seen the old bodies of the abbots in their golden chortens on the top floor of the gompa, where no-one could stand above them.
 
One of his first acts at Dorje-la had been to preside over the funeral of one of the old monks, a Lob-pon named Lobsang Geshe.
 
And everywhere, on the walls and ceilings of the monastery, the dead danced like children.
 
From the age of three, they had been his playmates.
 
But he was still afraid.

Time had no meaning in the mist, and he had no idea what part of the day it was when he first heard the footsteps.
 
He listened, petrified.
 
There were demons in the passes.
 
Demons and ro-lang, the standing corpses of men struck by lightning, who walked the mountains with eyes closed, unable to die and be reborn.
 
In the long nights of the lab rang Pema Chindamani had entranced him with spooky tales, and he had listened pop-eyed in the candlelight.

But here, in the mist, her stories returned to freeze his blood.

A figure appeared, tall, shadowy, swathed in black.
 
The boy pressed himself back against the rock, praying that Lord Chenrezi or the Lady Tara would come to his protection.
 
He muttered the mantras Tobchen had taught him.
 
Om Ara Pa Tsa Na Dhi, he recited, using the mantra of Manjushri he had recently learned.

“Rinpoche, is that you?”
 
came a muffled voice.
 
The boy closed his eyes tightly and recited the mantra faster than ever.

“Dorje Samdup Rinpoche?
 
This is Thondrup Chophel.
 
I have come from Dorje-la in search of you.”

He felt a hand on his arm and almest bit his tongue in fear.

“Please, Rinpoche, don’t be afraid.
 
Open your eyes.
 
It’s me, Thondrup Chophel.
 
I’ve come to take you back.”

At last the boy conquered his fear and allowed himself to look.

It was not Thondrup Chophel.
 
It was not anyone he knew.
 
It was a demon in black, with a fearsome, painted face that scowled at him.
 
He leapt up, thinking to run.
 
A hand gripped him by the arm and held him fast.
 
He looked round at the demon, panicking.

The creature lifted a hand to its face and removed a mask.
 
It was a leather mask, like one of those the travellers had worn three days earlier.
 
Underneath was the familiar face of Thondrup Chophel.

“I’m sorry I frightened you, lord,” the man said.
 
He paused.

“Where is Geshe Tobchen?”

The little Rinpoche explained.

“Then let us be grateful to Lord Chenrezi that he guided me to you.
 
Look, even the mist is lifting.
 
When we have eaten, it will be time to leave.”

They ate in silence at first, plain tea and tsampa as always.

Thondrup Chophel had never been a talkative man.
 
The boy had never liked him: he was the Geku of his college in the monastery, the official responsible for disciplining the monks.
 
Samdup remembered him in his heavy robe with padded shoulders, striding between the rows of shaven heads at services in the great temple hall of Dorje-la.
 
He never disciplined Samdup personally that had been the task of Geshe Tobchen, the boy’sjegtengegen, his chief guardian and teacher.
 
But Thondrup Chophel had often given him fierce looks and was never backward about reporting him to Tobchen.

“Have you come to take me to Gharoling?”
 
the boy asked.

“Gharoling?
 
Why should we go to Gharoling, lord?
 
I have come to take you back to Dorje-la Gompa.”

“But Geshe Tobchen was taking me to Gharoling, to study with Geshe Tsering Rinpoche.
 
He said I was not to return to Dorje-la.

Not under any circumstances.”

The monk shook his head.

“Please do not argue, lord.
 
I have been instructed to bring you back.
 
The abbot is concerned for you.
 
Geshe Tobchen did not have his permission to take you away, let alone bring you to Gharoling of all places.
 
You are too young to understand.
 
But you must return with me.
 
You have no choice.”

“But Geshe Tobchen warned me .. .”

“Yes?
 
What did he warn you of?”

“Of... danger.”

“Where?
 
At Dorje-la?”

The boy nodded.
 
He felt unhappy, unable to defend his teacher’s wishes.

“You must be mistaken, lord.
 
There is no danger at Dorje-la.

You will be safe there.”

“And if I choose to go to Gharoling myself?”

He saw the anger rise in the Geku.
 
He was a powerful man with a short temper.
 
Samdup had often seen him mete out punishment.

“You would die before you reached Gharoling.
 
This is not the path.

Gharoling is far from here.
 
I have come to take you back to Dorje-la.

There will be no argument.
 
You have no choice.”

The boy looked into the mist.
 
The world was indeed a terrible place.
 
Animals and men fell into its empty places and did not return.
 
If he stayed here, he too would fall and be swallowed up.

Geshe Tobchen would have known what to do.
 
He had always known.
 
But Geshe Tobchen was gone into the mist.
 
There was no choice: he would have to return to Dorje-la.

PART TWO

Incarnation

Dorje-La “I remained to dream the nightmare out to the end.”

Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

They left Kalimpong late at night, when it was fully dark and not even a glimmer of moonlight could betray them.
 
Only the barking of stray dogs marked their passage.
 
On a balcony somewhere, hidden from them, a woman was sobbing into the darkness.
 
In the Knox Homes, behind the church, bed-time prayers were over; a little girl lay sleepless in her bed, listening to the dismal cry of a screech-owl.

Christopher had spent the rest of the day in a disused outhouse while Lhaten bought supplies a few here, a few there, so as not to arouse suspicion.
 
He had purchased a little food, mostly tsampa or roasted barley flour, some butter, some tea, some strips of dried beef, and salt.
 
Christopher had also given him a list of items whose purpose Lhaten could not guess: a bottle of dark hair-dye, iodine, walnut juice, some lemons, and a jar of glue.
 
He also changed a little money, giving rupees for Tibetan trangkas at the rate of one for five.
 
At his own discretion, Lhaten had further changed some of the trangkas for smaller copper coins: only a very wealthy man or a pee-ling would carry that many silver trangkas, and he didn’t think his new friend would want to be identified as either.

At the Post Office in Prince Albert Street, Lhaten sent a telegram to Winterpole: “News of Uncle William.
 
Complications here make it impossible stay Auntie’s.
 
Friends suggest camping in hills.
 
May be out of touch for next month.”
 
He also left a more detailed sealed message at the British Trade Agency, for Frazer to transmit to London by a more secure route.
 
It was to let the folks at home know how young Christopher was getting on in distant India, and it asked Winterpole to get Delhi CID moving on an investigation of Carpenter and the Knox Homes.

Before leaving, Christopher transformed himself.
 
Shivering, he stripped to the skin and daubed himself liberally with a mixture made from the walnut juice and iodine.
 
When the dark stain had dried, he dressed again, putting on heavy clothes suitable for the conditions ahead.
 
Over these, he draped an ensemble of evil smelling rags and much-patched cast-offs that Lhaten had dredged up from somewhere unspeakable.
 
Christopher had not asked where he preferred not to know.
 
The hair-dye worked well enough for something labelled: “Phatak’s World-Renouned Hare-die and Restore, Effektive against Greyness of He’d, Baldiness, and Skalp Itchingness.”
 
There was enough left in the bottle for a touch-up every week or so provided Christopher’s hair hadn’t all fallen out by then.
 
The last touch was the most difficult: he squeezed a few drops of lemon directly into his eyes.
 
It stung like hell, but when he was able to look in the mirror again, he could tell that his eyes had lost most of their blueness and were now dark enough to match his skin and hair.

They travelled as far as they could that night, to be well away from Kalimpong by morning.
 
Their first destination was Namchi, about seven miles to the north-west.
 
In the darkness, without sign or token, they passed over the border between British India and Sikkim.
 
Christopher knew that more than a physical frontier had been crossed.
 
The mountains that lay ahead were in the mind as much as in nature.

They passed Namchi soon after midnight.
 
It was a collection of bamboo houses, silent, unguarded, sleeping.
 
Christopher could not tell how Lhaten found his way in the darkness.
 
The path went upwards, sometimes steeply, across damp meadows and once through a patch of forest.
 
The forest would grow thicker later on, before they left the treeline and entered the pass country.

On Lhaten’s advice, they made camp about three miles from Namchi.
 
Christopher felt wide awake and wanted to go on, but Lhaten insisted they rest.