The Cloud Maker (2010) (26 page)
He had to get Rega to agree with him.
Rega and he were equals in the monastery, second only to His Holiness the Abbot. They had ruled every facet of the order for over a decade while the Abbot gradually withdrew into himself, as custom dictated. As his enlightenment became such that he reached the highest levels of the Wheel of Life, so his introspection grew. Now the Abbot was almost never seen outside his quarters, becoming a hermit within his own monastery.
Their once-great leader, the monk who had first begun the long and dangerous process of bringing the treasure to Geltang, was now so detached from life at the monastery that he had become almost a myth within his own lifetime. As each year passed and the Abbot’s concerns grew ever-more esoteric, the daily responsibilities of running the monastery had increasingly been delegated to them.
In the present crisis, it was vital that the frayed network of alliances throughout their order be pulled together rather than allowed to splinter apart. A schism would threaten the very heart of all they held secret.
Lifting his chin up and smoothing his robe, Dorje knocked firmly on the door and entered.
The room was badly lit, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark. The only source of light was a narrow window in the far corner and the huge, vaulted room seemed to swim in a grey half-light.
Rega sat on a massive wooden chair, raised on a dais in the centre. His angular body slumped back against it, dwarfed by the chair’s giant frame. Standing to one side was a second figure, its identity lost in the shadows. It turned at the sound of Dorjeapproach and the monk immediately recognised the muscular form of Rega’s chief aide, Drang.
Rega looked up, his blind eyes fixing unerringly on the new arrival.
‘Dorje,’ he said, the word more a fact that a form of greeting.
Dorje gave a brief nod before striding purposefully forward, coming to a halt a few paces away from the chair. He glanced at Drang, standing to one side.
‘Leave us,’ he said with a wave of dismissal.
For the briefest of moments Drang’s eyes fixed on Rega. Then he bowed low, keeping his eyes locked on Dorje, before retreating silently from the room.
‘I have come to decide with you what must be done,’
Dorje said, standing with his hands folded in front of him. ‘We need to make our recommendation to His Holiness.’
Dorje said, standing with his hands folded in front of him. ‘We need to make our recommendation to His Holiness.’
Rega’s cowled head slowly tilted to one side.
‘You know as well as I do what must be done,’ he said, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘It is whether you have the courage to make that choice.’
Dorje paused before asking, ‘So what would you have us do?’
Rega’s hands lay open across his lap as if appealing to the heavens.
‘We cannot risk them ever leaving. From this day onward, the Westerners must be forced to stay at Geltang.’
Dorje exhaled slowly, glancing away from Rega’s lifeless gaze and staring towards the window and its single shaft of light.
‘You know we cannot do that. Not since our order was founded has such a course ever been followed . . .’
‘Nor have we ever had such visitors!’ Rega suddenly roared, pulling himself to his feet. ‘We cannot let them back into the outside world and put at risk everything we have worked for. Others will inevitably follow and I, above anyone else, know the consequences of that.’
‘The consequences are not always the same.’
Rega’s lip curled in disdain. He stepped off the dais, the movements of his old body fluid and self-assured within his chambers, and stopped only a few inches away from Dorje.
‘Look into my broken eyes and tell me that again,’ he hissed, throwing the cowl of his robe back so that his whole head was exposed. ‘I have suffered experiences you cannot possibly imagine. The last thing these eyes saw was our monks being butchered and the sacred treasure burning. And you dare suggest that the consequences will not be the same?’
Dorje found himself retreating a pace. Then he stiffened his back and replied in a measured voice.
‘I think perhaps your judgement on this matter is clouded. They are not Chinese, these men, but simple climbers. And you would do well to remember that, although they did not know it, they were actually the ones who ensured our treasure was delivered safely.’
‘They acted unwittingly!’ Flecks of spittle shot from Rega’s mouth as he spoke. ‘Imagine how differently they would have acted if they knew what she was delivering.’
Dorje shrugged his shoulders, his frown line deepening.
‘These are uncertain times, but I believe they must serve some purpose in being here. The will of Buddha brought them to our gates. We cannot judge them, nor condemn them, without first understanding why. I understand the suspicion you must feel, given all that you have been through . . .’ Dorje’s voice trailed off.
‘You understand?’ Rega sneered. ‘You understand what, exactly?’
There was a pause, the tension between them heightened by the absolute quiet in the chamber.
‘Do you know why they lined up the older monks?’ Rega asked softly.
Dorje was bemused. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘They lined them up because it was not practical to bring them back over the mountain pass. They would have slowed the soldiers down too much. Instead, a novice was chosen and a gun placed in his hands. Then . . . BANG!’ Rega clapped his hands together, the noise echoing loudly. ‘The Abbot was shot first. Then they did away with all our most venerable fathers, one by one, while the rest of our order stood by, watching by the light of our own burning monastery.’
Light from the window cut across Rega’s face. All the colour had drained from his cheeks.
‘But I never saw the others die,’ he continued. ‘By then I had lost my sight. I just heard the endless cracks of the rifles.’
Dorje looked down at the ground. A well of sickening emotion flooding through him – pity mixed with revulsion at such violence. He had always known that Rega had escaped from one of the earliest
beyuls
, but in all their time together, he had never once heard him speak of it.
beyuls
, but in all their time together, he had never once heard him speak of it.
‘You are right,’ Dorje said slowly. ‘I cannot imagine what you have been through. I apologise for my presumption.’
Rega brushed off the remark, his expression still harsh.
‘Unless you wish to stand by and watch history repeat itself, the foreigners must be forced to remain here. That is the only solution.’
As he spoke there was a rap on the door and Drang quietly stepped inside. He made to approach them but Dorje’s hand shot out, gesturing him to wait.
‘Even if we agreed to it, how do you propose to detain the Westerners?’ he asked, his voice kept low so that only Rega could hear.
Rega leaned closer to him, so Dorje could smell the musty aroma of his robes.
‘The Perfect Life. We must force them to take it.’
Dorje’s eyes widened in surprise. Before he could speak Rega had signalled for Drang to approach.
‘A messenger from the Abbot,’ Drang announced.
Behind him a tall boy of about fourteen hesitantly shuffled into the room. The boy’s robes clung to his gangly body and he moved with the awkwardness of one who was too tall for his age. He came to a halt a few meters away from the dais and dropped into a low bow. As he pulled himself vertical once again, he reached out his right hand which contained a tightly-rolled scroll. He presented it in the direction of Rega then, realising his mistake, quickly moved his arm so that it was pointing towards Dorje instead.
Dorje gathered himself and moved towards the boy.
‘Thank you, Norbu,’ he said softly. He knew how flustered the Abbot’s aide could become by just the simplest change in his routine. Dorje’s eyes quickly scanned the parchment.
‘We are to keep the Westerners separate and to observe them. That is the Abbot’s decree.’
‘But it is for us to advise him,’ Rega protested. ‘Does he not wish to hear our voice on such a matter? And what of the Council of Elders?’
Dorje didn’t answer but simply released the corners of the parchment, allowing it to roll back on itself. He stood lost in thought while Rega began pacing up and down in front of the dais.
‘I do not like what has been happening recently,’ he proclaimed, his thin fingers balled into fists. ‘Strange things have happened that have never been allowed before. Two weeks ago a boy arrived who did not pass our initiation and was not of age, yet he was shown directly to the Abbot’s quarters . . . And now this mild treatment of Westerners. Does the Abbot not realise that they could destroy everything?’ He pointed to Norbu, standing with his head bowed subserviently. ‘You, Abbot’s messenger, who was that boy exactly? You are the one charged with looking after him, are you not?’
Norbu’s eyes looked to Dorje pleadingly then back to Rega.
‘He . . . he is from Lhasa, venerable father,’ he answered, stuttering slightly. ‘The third son of the Depon family.’
‘Indeed. And, tell me, who is his father?’
Norbu’s cheeks flooded with colour. He rocked back and forth, shoulders hunched from tension. His lips moved silently as he tried to articulate the sentence and hold back his stammer.
‘He is the honourable Gyaltso Depon, second . . . second governor of the city of Lhasa.’
Dorje swept forward, coming between Rega and the boy.
‘Enough of this!’ he said. ‘This boy is just a messenger.’ Then his voice became gentler as he put a hand on Norbu’s shoulder. ‘Go to the Abbot, child, and inform His Holiness that we will honour his request to keep the Westerners separate and observed.’
With obvious relief Norbu scuttled out of the chamber, eyeing Drang warily as he squeezed past him and out of the door.
Dorje inhaled deeply. ‘I will set watch on the taller Westerner, you the injured one. I understand that your physicians are working on him now.’
Rega gave a distracted nod.
‘Well then,’ Dorje continued, ‘we shall wait and see what the will of Buddha decrees.’ He then turned towards the exit. ‘And, Rega, you have every right to be sceptical of foreigners, but we must wait for them to reveal their true natures. We must allow them to show themselves to us, and if they act honourably, if they respect and understand Geltang’s true purpose, then perhaps they will make the decision for us.’
Rega remained absolutely still, so that Dorje wondered if he had even heard what had been said.
‘We all agree that the Perfect Life is not a decision to be taken lightly,’ Dorje added in the face of Rega’s silence, then swept out of the room.
Rega waited until the door had closed before pulling his cowl over his head once again. It cast a deep shadow over the top half of his face, leaving only his jutting chin visible beneath. A long time ago he had watched calamitous events unfold in this way, seen so much lost due to the inaction of others.
This time there was too much at stake.
Chapter 35
Captain Zhu stood at the head of the pathway, watching the trail of soldiers pass beneath him in single file.
The eight soldiers from the SOF unit in Chengdu had arrived before dawn at Gonkar airport on a special charter Ilyushin IL-76 jet. As the vast balloon tyres slowly ground to a halt and the rear of the plane lowered with a hiss of hydraulics, Zhu had watched the soldiers swiftly clamber out and on to the waiting trucks. He didn’t need the files he’d been faxed on each one of them to know they were professionals. You could see it from the way they moved.
Over two days of travelling had followed on hard, sun-baked roads. They had then left the trucks and started walking along meandering trails, the soldiers maintaining an unrelenting pace. Each carried an enormous pack, their QBZ-95 assault rifles held loosely in front of them. At the slightest noise, the butt of the rifles instinctively shifted up into their shoulders while their thumb clicked off the safety catch. They would stand perfectly still, eyes scanning their surroundings, bodies tense, as they waited for the all clear. Despite the comparatively easy terrain, it was obvious that none of them was taking anything for granted.
Zhu had commanded this kind of man before: every movement drilled into them by training, every order completed with detached professionalism. For them, the mission objectives changed, but the realities of life in the field was always the same. For hour after hour they marched along in the mountain heat, utterly indifferent to it, while the remainder of the group struggled to keep pace.
Lumbering along at the back, two hundred yards behind the last in line, was the bearish frame of René Falkus. Completely at odds with the military green of the others, he wore thick brown corduroy trousers and a pale blue shirt. A spotted red and white handkerchief was tied round his neck in a vain effort to absorb the rivulets of sweat running down from his hairline, while his chest heaved in the thin mountain air. Already the sun had seared his forehead and cheeks a painful pink and he squinted, eyes half closed, against its harsh light.
René glanced up to see Zhu standing high above the path, watching the line of men move past. For a moment their eyes met before René wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt and trudged on. He settled back into his normal pace, his eyes reverting to the spot they had been trained on all day.
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