Tulku (23 page)

‘You didn’t hear him,’ said Theodore. ‘You heard that other monk reading out what he said the oracle had said.’

‘But that is the way it is always done. The powers only speak in the barest whisper.’

‘So you never know if the man with the slate is telling the truth.’

‘My dear boy,’ said the Major, still not seeming at all shocked, ‘why shouldn’t he? They’re not fools, these monks. The Master of Protocol – that’s the fellow you saw with the slate – he’s a long way on to enlightenment, almost free from the illusions of the world. Think what he’d do to all that if he started perverting the word of the oracle!’

‘He might think he was doing the right thing. I mean, he wants to keep Dong Pe out of the hands of the Chinese, doesn’t he, and that means getting in first before the Chinese produce somebody they say is their own Tulku. And anyway, people do do things like that – Christians too, famous ministers, and bishops, and cardinals, although they know they’d go to hell for it.’

‘I dare say. I dare say. There’s nowt so queer as folk, as my poor batman used to say – good example meself, some people might think. You’ll just have to take my word for it that the Master
of
Protocol was telling the truth, and we won’t talk any more about it. It won’t get us anywhere and it will only make you miserable.’

‘But . . .’

‘I think we’ll drop the subject. No? Well, I suppose I’ll have to show you I mean it. I hadn’t meant to tell you this, but I see I must. Now listen. Even if the Lama Amchi himself were to come and beg me to do what you want, I’d turn him down. He might threaten to throw me out of Dong Pe, but I’d still turn him down.’

‘But why . . .’

‘That woman . . . I’ve been fretting about this, because I didn’t care to tell you, but as a matter of fact I’ll be glad to get it off my chest. Lama Amchi asked me to go along yesterday morning – never set foot in his house before – sit behind a screen, listen to what you and Mrs Jones were saying. I’ve told him I won’t do it again. Remarkable character, Mrs Jones, don’t you consider? Here I am, past seventy and good as blind, and yet . . . I’ve known quite a few women in my day – nothing like an Indian Army station for hot little intrigues – and yet there was I, tucked in behind that screen, listening to that voice, and she brought it all back – the glances across the dinner table, the squeeze of a foot as you helped some other fellow’s wife into the saddle, dusk beneath the deodars . . . Can’t have that, you know, just when I’m starting to free meself from the wheel, all those memories coming whistling me back, hey? Not much help to you, me boy. I’m telling you partly to get it off me chest, and partly to show you that there’s no question at all I’m going to do what you ask. I’m sorry, but there it is.’

‘I see,’ said Theodore dully. ‘Shall we go and clean the temple?’

‘Been round already. All done. Can’t have the Guide doing that sort of work, you know. What would the other monks think of me?’

‘I like cleaning the temple. It’s something to do.’

‘My dear boy . . .’

‘I’m going to start over where I left off, and nobody’s going to stop me.’

The Major’s protests were short and feeble. He liked company while he was doing his chores and was glad to be overruled. Encouraged by this success Theodore determined to refuse to be present at Mrs Jones’s ceremony of initiation as the Lama Amchi’s
chela
, whatever anyone said or threatened.

He was brushing out the intricate crown of a female god called Tara when the big doors opened and the oracle-priest came in to perform his morning rituals. His face had a huge bruise all down one side, and he limped along, supported on one side by a young monk and on the other by a crutch.

‘How do you feel?’ asked Theodore, in answer to his croaked greeting.

‘Like a thrashed yak,’ said the oracle-priest, with a rueful peasant grin.

14

THE TUSSLE OVER
the initiation ceremony was nothing like as fierce as Theodore had expected. He told Mrs Jones beforehand, and she pleaded with him with surprising earnestness, then suddenly shrugged and said, ‘Ah, well. You’ll just have to tell old Amchi it’s against your religious principles. I’ll back you up, if you really feel that way.’

The Lama Amchi on the other hand accepted Theodore’s decision almost as though he had been aware of it already.

‘It is not necessary that the Mother of the Tulku understands the ritual,’ he said. ‘It is only necessary that she has faith in it. But tomorrow, when her instruction begins, it will be necessary for you to be present.’

‘All right,’ said Theodore reluctantly.

The Lama Amchi was a teacher very like Father in some ways, patient, systematic, stone-certain of his divine right to teach. At the school in the Settlement Theodore had been neither the best pupil nor the worst. At Dong Pe there was only one pupil, Mrs Jones. Theodore was a piece of classroom equipment – a blackboard, so to speak, on which the Lama Amchi wrote for Mrs Jones to read. Theodore deliberately chose this role, rather than become a second pupil in the class. He tried
to
learn nothing, to let only the surface of his mind become engaged and then to wipe it clean as soon as Mrs Jones had understood what was written there. The job was both tiring and tedious, and though Theodore was perfectly at home in both languages, after about half an hour his mind would go numb, so that he was unable to find the right words for even the simplest phrase. The Lama seemed able to guess when these moments were coming, and would often tell him to rest just as he felt the blankness coming on him. Then Theodore would rise and bow and go to one of the windows, prop his Bible on the sill and read for a while with his fingers stuffed in his ears to shut out the sound of Mrs Jones practising the throbbing and humming mantras which the Lama was teaching her. Or else he would take a pencil and a sheet of the fibrous Tibetan paper and make one more effort to sketch the majestic bulk of the mountain called the Dome of Purest Light, which composed all the far horizon of the valley. After a while, as if at an unperceived signal, he would fold his paper away or put his Bible into his pocket, turn, bow to the Lama, and become a blackboard again.

But even as a blackboard he learnt something. Certain marks, so to speak, could never be quite rubbed out. For instance, he was startled out of indifference by discovering that the Lama didn’t believe in God. Gods, yes, but all bound like men to the world of illusion, beyond which lay something which wasn’t God, but was what the Lama called enlightenment, the only not-illusion. All life yearned towards that state. Souls were like fish struggling towards their spawning-ground against the rush of a great river; they were
born
again in many forms on that almost endless journey, until they reached their goal. But some, reaching it, turned back to help the others. The Buddha himself was not God, or even a god, but a soul who had chosen to be re-born into the world of illusion when it could have escaped, in order to show others the way. The Siddha Asara was another such teacher.

Theodore paid attention to what the Lama said about the Siddha Asara, because he thought it might affect their escape, but he could make no sense of it. The child in Mrs Jones’s womb both was and was not the Siddha Asara, just as in his previous life he had been Tojing Rimpoche, who was himself and not the Siddha, and yet he was the Siddha . . . Theodore gave up, but the mark was there on the blackboard.

At other times a mark would come and remain indelible in spite of him. The Lama, explaining what he meant by saying that Mrs Jones had not needed to understand her initiation ceremony, but only to have faith in it, had told the following story: some three hundred years before, the fifth Dalai Lama had noticed the goddess Tara walking every day along the pilgrims’ path round his palace. He made enquiries and found that one old man among the pilgrims made that journey every day, repeating the mantra of the goddess as he went. Only the old man got the mantra wrong each time, so the Dalai had him taught the correct words. Immediately the goddess ceased to walk the pilgrims’ way, and did not re-appear until the old man was allowed to say her mantra in his old, meaningless way. Theodore hated this story but couldn’t forget it. It embodied so much he disliked and distrusted about the Lama’s religion – the
empty
repetition of syllables, like the automatic rotation of prayer-wheels, as if nonsense was more holy, more worthwhile, than honest, wholesome intelligence striving for the meanings of things . . . and yet at the same time Theodore himself acknowledged a presence that listened morning and evening to his attempts to pray but gave no other sign. Were his prayers, like the old man’s mantra, nonsense too?

What did Mrs Jones make of all this? Theodore never asked – as soon as he was out of the Lama Amchi’s room he tried to forget everything to do with it, and Mrs Jones, quick as usual to perceive his needs, normally spoke about other things. But occasionally she would forget, and almost as if talking to herself, would make some comment. One day, for instance, as they were walking – or rather processing, for she was never allowed to move anywhere within the monastery without her own ritual escort – across the main courtyard she said, ‘Funny, that, about my spinal column.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just it comes in a lot. Don’t you remember, him telling me to form the shape of it in my mind, and then dream up a lotus growing out of the top of my skull? That’s not the botanical flower what you and I know,
Nymphaea lotus
, what I always have a bit of trouble getting out of my mind – it’s his holy lotus, of course. You remember that?’

‘No.’

‘Oh, I won’t bother you with it . . . only I keep thinking, some of what he tells me, I ought to of worked out for myself long ago. Spines, for instance – I’ve always had a fancy for backbones.’

She gave a silent chuckle, reached out and ran her hand from the small of Theodore’s back up to
his
collar; it was the sort of half-thinking caress one might give to a dog that settles alongside one’s chair, but it made him shiver as though energies were flowing from her finger-tips into his marrow. They walked on, four monks before and two behind, but he had to restrain himself from shaking himself as a dog does after such a touch.

That must have happened quite early in the course of her teaching, because she was still wearing her hat and veil, and all her make-up, and was carrying a frilly parasol over her shoulder. But as week added itself to week and then month to month, she changed. There was no particular day on which she discarded her hat – instead she spent a couple of evenings remodeling one, twisting and steaming and punching and stitching the tolerant felt until, though it was the same hat in all essentials, it now had a curious upward-pointing peak vaguely like the caps worn by Tibetan nuns when they came from the nunnery, two miles along the mountain, to attend one of the ceremonies.

A few days later the veil vanished. Mrs Jones also took to wearing her dark russet riding-cloak, experimenting with its clasp, taking up its hem, devising a loose belt, until she had a garment that fell in much the same folds as a monk’s robe. She gave the parasol to a peasant woman who admired it. And by unnoticed stages she abandoned her make-up. This change was so slow that there was no certain morning on which Theodore realized that her skin was rather coarse – not pocked, but large-pored – with a delta of wrinkles at the corner of each eye, and that a line of dark down ran along her upper lip. The blue-black
shadows
faded from round her eyes, making them seem less enormous, but they were still the same eyes, large, sparkling with life and full of secrets. She might spend half an evening in her screened nook in the guest-house, quietly humming her mantras or sitting in total silence, cross-legged on her cot, staring at one of the patterns of Tibetan letters which she had hung there; but then she would emerge and begin to tease Lung and Theodore, or touch up her plant-drawings or look at Theodore’s latest work and show him how the emphasis of a line or the deepening of a shadow might give a picture body. They would eat supper, and then she would sit beside Lung on his cot with her head on his shoulder and his hand clasped in her lap and sing his favourite song . . .

The boy I love sits up in the gallery,

The boy I love is looking down at me . . .

and Lung would smile and fondle a tress of hair with his free hand and pretend to be happy, but often the tears would stream down his cheeks as she sang. Theodore was neither shocked nor embarrassed by these scenes. It was like watching an old couple, grandparents of many children, sitting by the hearth and remembering their courting days.

Lung, of course, noticed and resented each alteration in Mrs Jones. Sometimes he argued, but more often he would try and do things to draw her attention back to earlier days: fuss over her plant collection, or try to get her to organize her sketches; strip down her rifle and clean it; unpack and repack the baggage, on the pretext that everything had to be ready for the escape;
and
so on. One morning Theodore and Mrs Jones returned from the Lama’s house to find that Lung had hammered nails into the wall and hung there, like a military trophy, the sword he had taken from the dead bandit. The rifle was slung across it.

‘That looks real handsome,’ said Mrs Jones. ‘Mind you, you’ll have to keep cleaning it, or it’ll get the rust. It’d be better off in its case, honest.’

‘Will not be there long time,’ said Lung.

‘Oho! What’s up, then? You on to something?’

‘I find friend who help us escape.’

‘Have you now? Sure? Who is he?’

‘You see him long time back, drink tea with me. Lama Sumpa his name.’

‘Ah, that fellow! What’s in it for him?’

‘Not say, but perhaps he think if help Chinese, then Chinese make Sumpa Abbot of Dong Pe.’

‘Now you be careful, my love. He’d help the Chinese just as much by pushing me into the first ravine we come to.’

‘No, no,’ said Lung, smiling confidently. ‘Sumpa say perhaps Lama Amchi find wrong Tulku, but Sumpa not sure. If this maybe true Tulku, Sumpa afraid to kill Missy, see. But take Missy far from Dong Pe, then baby is born. If he is true Tulku, Sumpa says, he find way back to Dong Pe.’