The Ninth Buddha (43 page)

But Zamyatin would not feel constrained by superstitious awe.

He was more than capable of having Tsarong Rinpoche’s boast translated into stark reality.

“I have to go back,” said Christopher.

“Even if it’s only a hope, I can’t leave without trying to save him. He is my father.
 
Whatever he’s done, I can’t just abandon him.”

Chindamani reached out a hand.
 
She wanted so much to hold him to her until all this had passed away.

“Take me with you,” she said.

Christopher shook his head.

“I can’t,” he said.

“You know I can’t.
 
We’ve been through so much to escape, we can’t just throw it all away by going back up there.
 
You must stay here with William and Samdup.
 
If I don’t return by noon tomorrow, you’ll know I’m not coming back.
 
Take the boys and leave.
 
Try to find your way to Lhasa: you’re an incarnation; Samdup’s an incarnation they’ll find a place for you there.
 
Take William to a man called Bell he’s the British representative in Tibet.
 
He’ll see to it that the boy is taken home safely.”

“I’m frightened for you, Ka-ris To-feh!”

f “I know.
 
And I for you.
 
But I have no choice.
 
I intend to return with my father.
 
Wait for me here.”

He turned to William and explained to him as well as he could } that he had to go back for his father.

“Chindamani will look after you until I return,” he said.

“Do I what she tells you, even if you don’t understand a word she says.

Will you be all right?

William nodded.
 
He hated to see his father go again, but he understood.

“How’s your neck?
 
Does it hurt?”

William shook his head.

“It itches a little, that’s all.”

Christopher smiled, kissed the boy on the cheek, and began the ascent to the monastery.
 
Chindamani watched him go.
 
As he disappeared into the darkness, she saw shadows creep across the stars.
 
She could feel the world going out of her, far, far away, like a cloud dissolving in a storm.

It took him an hour to reach the foot of the main building.
 
The ladder was in place.
 
He looked up, but from where he stood he could not see Zamyatin’s window.
 
He put a foot on the first rung and began to climb.

Two men had been put on the door.
 
They opened it to Christopher’s pounding, their faces surly, unfriendly and, Christopher thought, more than a little frightened.
 
They guessed that he might be the dangerous pee-ling they had been given orders to capture.
 
But they had expected to find him inside the monastery, not coming from the outside.

Christopher had taken Tsarong Rinpoche’s gun before leaving

Chindamani’s room.
 
Now he fingered it in his pocket, a dull weight reminding him of another existence.

“I’ve come to speak with Zamyatin,” he said.

The monks eyed him cautiously, unable to understand where he had sprung from.
 
His clothes were soiled and matted with cobwebs and his eyes were troubled by something beyond their guessing.

They were armed with Chinese halberds, heavy, long-bladed tools of war that could inflict serious injury even when blunt.
 
But neither man felt comfort in the feel of the heavy weapon in his hands.
 
They had heard in a much embellished form of Tsarong Rinpoche’s fate.
 
Zamyatin had ordered them to watch the door, but superstition travelled more easily in their veins than the stranger’s commands.

“No-one is allowed to disturb Zam-ya-ting,” said one of the men, braver or more stupid than his companion.

“I intend to disturb him,” Christopher replied in a matter-of-fact tone.
 
It rattled the monk even more to find the pee-ling implacable rather than angry or blustering.
 
They were in any case already feeling the first pangs of conscience about what had happened.

From an orgy of death, they and most of their colleagues had passed to a hangover of uncertainty.
 
Without the Rinpoche to hector them, they were like children whom a party game has led into unintended naughtiness.

Christopher sensed their hesitation and walked past.
 
One of the men called out to him to stop, but he went on regardless and the shouting subsided.

The monastery was silent.
 
Although dawn was near, no-one had ventured out to sound the summons to morning prayers.
 
Dorje-la would sleep late to-day if it slept at all.

He climbed to the top storey, tired, sad, defeated.
 
He passed quickly through the rooms of the five elements and reached the hall of the chortens.
 
No-one stopped him.
 
He heard no voices, saw no sign that anyone had been there.

The long hall was empty.
 
Only the bodies of the dead watched him enter.
 
The first pale light of dawn crept through the unshuttered window, near which a lamp still burned.
 
Christopher’s weariness changed slowly to a profound sense of unease.
 
Where was the Russian?

“Zamyatin!”
 
he called.
 
His voice sounded unnaturally loud in the echoing room.
 
There was no answer.

“Zamyatin!
 
Are you there?”
 
he called again, but no-one replied.

He walked down the room, past the window that overlooked the pass, past memories all the more poignant for their freshness, past his father coming to life again among the shadows, past himself staring astonished at the old man.
 
Too many ghosts.
 
Too many shadows.

He headed for the abbot’s bedroom.
 
The door was locked, but without someone to guard it, it was a flimsy enough affair.
 
The lock was more ornamental than practical, and Christopher was able to kick it open without difficulty.

The old man was seated cross-legged in front of a small altar, his back to Christopher, his bent figure haloed by the light of a dozen butter lamps.
 
He showed no sign that he had heard Christopher knock down the door.
 
He did not turn his head or speak, other than to continue with his devotions.

Christopher stood by the door, feeling suddenly embarrassed and awkward, an intruder on his father’s privacy.
 
The old man murmured inaudibly, oblivious of his surroundings.
 
Christopher might have been Tsarong Rinpoche returned to kill him after all, but the abbot paid no attention.

Christopher stepped a few paces into the room.
 
He stopped, listening to his father’s prayer, hesitant to disturb him.
 
Then, with a shock of recognition, he understood the words the old man was reciting:

Nunc dimittis servum tuum Domine .. .

“Now Thou dost dismiss Thy servant, O Lord, according to Thy word in peace.
 
Because mine eyes have seen Thy salvation, Which Thou hast prepared before the face of all people ...”

It was the Canticle of Simeon, the old man who besought God to let him depart the world in peace, having set eyes on the Christ child.
 
Christopher stood still, listening to the familiar words, wondering if anything more than a dream separated him from that fateful evening after mass.

At last the abbot came to an end.
 
Christopher stepped forward and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Father,” he said.
 
It was the first time he had used the name when speaking to the old man.

“It’s time for us to go.”

The abbot looked up, like someone who has long been expecting a summons.

“Christopher,” he said.

“I hoped you might come.
 
Have you seen your son?”

Christopher nodded.

“Yes.”

“Is he all right?
 
Is he safe?”

“Yes, father.
 
He is safe.”

“And the other boy, Dorje Samdup Rinpoche is he safe too?”

“Yes.
 
I’ve left them both down in the pass.
 
Chindamani is with them.

They’re waiting for you.”

The old man smiled.

“I’m pleased they got away.
 
You must leave as well, help them to get as far away as possible.

“Not without you, father.
 
I came to fetch you.”

The abbot shook his head.
 
The smile left his lips and was replaced by a deep seriousness.

“No,” he said.

“I have to remain here.
 
I am the abbot.
 
Whatever Tsarong Rinpoche thinks, I am still abbot of Dorje-la.”

“Tsarong Rinpoche is dead, father.
 
You can remain abbot.
 
But for now it’s better for you to leave.
 
Just for a little while, until it’s safe for you to return.”

But his father shook his head again, more sadly this time.

“I’m sorry to hear about Tsarong Rinpoche.
 
He was very unhappy.
 
And now he will have to start his journey through his incarnations again.
 
How tired that makes me feel.
 
It’s time I laid this body with the others, Christopher.
 
Time I was reborn.”

“You were reborn,” said Christopher quietly.

“When you told me who you were, it was like a rebirth for me.
 
And again tonight.

Tsarong Rinpoche told me you were dead, and I believed him.

Coming in here like this, watching you at prayer it was like another rebirth.”

The old man put his hand on Christopher’s.

“Do you know what prayer I was reciting?”
 
he asked.

“Yes.
 
The Canticle of Simeon.”

“He knew when it was time to call an end.
 
He had seen what he spent his life waiting to see.
 
I feel the same way.
 
Don’t force me to come with you.
 
My place is here, among these tombs.
 
You have another destiny.
 
Don’t waste time here.
 
The boys need your protection.
 
Chindamani needs it.
 
And, I think, your love.
 
Don’t be too frightened of her: she’s not a goddess all the time.”

Leaning on Christopher’s arm, the old man eased himself slowly to his feet.

“Is the Russian still alive?”
 
he asked.

“I don’t know.
 
I think so.”

“Then it’s time you were on your way.
 
I’ve no concern with politics.

Bolsheviks, Tories, Liberals they’re all the same to me.

But the boy must be protected.
 
See that he comes to no harm.
 
And your own son.
 
I’m sorry I had him brought here, I’m sorry I caused you grief.
 
But believe me that I thought it was for the best.”

Christopher squeezed his father’s hand.

“Are you sure you won’t come with me?”
 
he said.

“Very sure.”

Christopher was silent.

“You are happy?”
 
he asked after a while.

“I am at peace, Christopher.
 
That is more important than happiness.
 
You will see.
 
In the end, you will see.
 
Now, you must go-‘ Reluctantly, Christopher let go of his father’s hand.

“Goodbye,” he whispered.

“Goodbye, Christopher.
 
Take care.”

Outside, a miserable sunlight was slowly working its way across the sky.
 
One by one, stars faded and the jagged edges of mountain peaks were etched once more against a grey sky.
 
In the air above, a vulture winged its way to Dorje-la Gompa.
 
Its great wings dragged it forward, casting a grey shadow on the snow.

Christopher ran towards the spot where he had left Chindamani and the boys.
 
The thin air scarred his lungs.
 
His chest heaved, filling with pain.
 
Altitude and tiredness were taking their combined toll.

There was a low ridge.
 
He staggered up it and fell at the top, landing in a soft bed of snow.
 
Picking himself up, he looked down into the pass.
 
It was empty.

PART THREE

Parousia.

“And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards

Bethlehem to be born3’

The Road to Sining-Fu.

W B Yeats “The Second Coming’

Christopher’s greatest fear was that he would fall asleep in the snow and succumb to the cold.
 
He had already been tired after his journey to Dorje-la, and the previous night’s exertions had taken their toll.
 
The weather was bitterly cold, and his only protection was the clothing he wore.
 
Several times when he rested he caught himself dozing off. He knew Zamyatin and the others would be tired too, but not as badly as himself.
 
And they had two tents, a little firewood, and some food. His only hope lay in the tracks that told him which way they had gone. He would keep following them until his strength gave out.

On the first night, he found a small hollow in a cliff-face: not really of a size to be designated a cave, but big enough to give him a little shelter from the biting winds.
 
He had not eaten since the early evening of the day before.