The White Mirror (33 page)

The Chhöshe gave no sign of affirmation or denial, and Li Du went on. “I next heard of that day from Sonam.” Li Du saw Pema flinch at the mention of the dead man's name. “Sonam used the phrase
an unexpected honor.
When I asked him what he meant, he told me that you—” Li Du looked at the Chhöshe. “—that you were the eldest son, and that it was unusual for an heir to be recognized as a tulku. It almost never occurs. He said that when the emissaries arrived and announced that their auguries had led them here in search of the Chhöshe, everyone believed that the boy chosen would be Pema. It was a surprise when the boy recognized was the other boy—Doso's heir.” Li Du's glance slid to Sonam's body. “Sonam said that he had good fortune here. He meant, I think, that with Doso's eldest son removed from the bloodline, it was Pema, Doso's adopted son, who would inherit first. And as Sonam's nephew, you, Pema, were his connection to the family. If he could assert power over you, he could take advantage of the wealth and land that you would control.”

Pema looked down at the matted fur of his worn sleeve. “I hope that I would not have let him. But please explain—why are you telling this to us?”

“It will be clear very soon,” Li Du said. “What I learned next, I learned from you yourself. You duplicated the painting that had been destroyed. You showed me Dhamo's vision—the vision that came to pass on that morning thirteen years ago. I discovered later—from Lumo—other curious details of that day. She told me that neither Doso nor his wife were happy at the honor that had visited their home. Doso was so grief-stricken that he threatened to harm Dhamo for what he had done.”

The temple seemed to hold its breath. Li Du went on. “That is what I was told. I will share with you now what I have observed. I have seen estrangement between two brothers who were inseparable.” He addressed Pema. “I have seen your isolation from the man who acknowledges you as his heir. And I have observed you—” He turned to the Chhöshe. “I have observed you lie and say that you do not remember this valley when in fact you remember every detail of it.”

The Chhöshe's face tensed. “I have not lied.”

“You recognized an animal you had not seen since you were a child.”

“I—”

“Pema does not remember the day you were recognized, but you do. It was that memory that brought you home. You remember that it was your brother, Pema, not you, who was given the bowl to carry up the mountain stairs that day. You remember finding him, afraid of the crowd and the strangers, his arms too tired to carry the heavy basin. You remember lifting the basin and carrying it to the temple yourself. And you remember being taken from your home for reasons you did not understand.”

Pema was looking at the Chhöshe, who was staring unseeingly at the altar. Li Du continued. “You came back here because you have never believed yourself to be the Chhöshe. You came back because you wanted to see the painting again—to search it for the truth. And when you learned that it had been destroyed, you despaired of ever knowing whether it contained some clue, some assurance, that what happened that day, what took you from your home and your family, was not a mistake.”

The flames on the altar continued to flicker. A gust of wind beat softly at the door and whispered through its seams. “But how could it have been a mistake?” Pema asked. “The painting showed—” He stopped.

“The painting showed three moments in time,” Li Du said. “The boy at the base of the stairs, the boy at the top of the stairs, and the boy making the offering at the temple. But what if the boy at the base of the stairs was not the same as the one at the top?”

The Chhöshe gave a shuddering sigh. “It happened at the hollow tree.” He turned to Pema. “You were frightened. You said that you had been told to take the bowl to the temple and offer it there, but you were afraid. You hid in the tree.”

Pema's eyes were wide and uncomprehending. “I don't remember,” he whispered.

Li Du spoke to the Chhöshe. “You found him there, and you were determined to help him because he was weak and you were strong. You wanted to protect him as you always had done. Neither of you knew that the task given to Pema was an important one. Neither of you understood what would happen.”

The Chhöshe cupped his face in his hands, then slowly drew them away. Tears glistened on his fingertips. “I tried to be who they said I was. I studied hard. But I could never stop thinking of my home. When I heard that my mother had died, I thought that it was my fault, that if I had been at home, she would not have—the fire might not have—and when I came back, I learned that it was—that it was the painting…” He trailed off, overcome.

Li Du turned to Pema. “Do you remember the day Karma died?”

Pema nodded solemnly. “She was here in the temple. She was often here. She fell asleep, but she had lighted many candles. And the dry wind blew through the walls and billowed the curtains to the flame.” Pema bowed his head.

Li Du spoke quietly. “Your grandmother, Mara, told me that there was something wrong with the painting. Karma never believed that Tashi was the Chhöshe. She returned again and again to the temple, searching the painting just as you intended to search it, for some sign that was overlooked. My guess is that she looked for a scar on the cheek of the painted face that would identify the boy as Pema, not Tashi. Perhaps it was there. Perhaps it was just a fiber in the silk or a ridge of uneven paint. Her confusion tormented her.”

“But who was it?” the Chhöshe whispered. “Which of us did he intend to paint?”

Pity for both of them welled up in Li Du's chest, pity for the cracks that had broken their paths and confused the directions of their lives. “There was no misinterpretation of the painting,” he said.

The young man who had carried the title of the Chhöshe like a burden ever since he was a child looked at Li Du in bewildered frustration. “But I have searched my mind. I can find in myself no other person than Tashi, no other home but this one, and no other family but my own.” His expression twisted, approaching anger. “You cannot tell me the truth. You are not a teacher. You are not a monk. You have not studied our way or our texts. How can you say that you know?”

Li Du shook his head. “You misunderstand me. I am not telling you that you are the Chhöshe.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“I mean that the painting was not real. There was never any vision of the Chhöshe in this valley. The details of this setting, the temple, a boy, and a basin of milk were supplied to Dhamo in Lhasa, not by visions, but by men. Dhamo thought that he was doing a service, but he was being used. The delegation that came to identify the Chhöshe here thirteen years ago had a purpose that had nothing to do with incarnations.”

“What purpose?” The Chhöshe's voice was hoarse, but it gained strength as he repeated the question. “What purpose brought them here?”

“The search for the Chhöshe was a ruse to disguise the real object of the mission, which was to place Dhamo in this temple, and to keep him here.”

“W—why?” Pema stumbled over the single word.

Briefly, without embellishment, Li Du told the two young men what Rinzen had confirmed. He did his best to impress upon them the gravity of the information, but he could see that they were hardly listening.

“Then I am not the Chhöshe. I am Tashi, as I always was.” Even as he spoke the name, it seemed to align with the young man's features.

“It is not within my power to tell you who you are,” Li Du answered quickly. “As you said, I am not a scholar or priest. I can only tell you that the identification thirteen years ago was contrived for a hidden motive. Any deeper truths—those are not mine to reveal.”

“And I—” Pema's voice shook. “I lost my brother.”

Tashi stood up. There was an eagerness to him, an energy that had not been there before. “There is so much that I do not understand,” he said.

“And I hope very soon to explain it to you,” Li Du said quickly. “But first I must ask for your help. I believe that the answer to the murders that took place here can be found in something that is missing.”

Tashi answered immediately. “The thangka that Dhamo was painting.”

“Yes. Pema, did you see it closely enough to be able to do as you did for the other painting? Can you draw it for me?”

Pema looked slightly startled. After a moment's thought he shook his head. “I cannot. I did not look at it closely. I am sorry.”

Li Du reassured him. “It was an outside hope. But now I will ask you this—do you remember anything that was said by the pilgrim who commissioned it? You told me Dhamo spoke words as he painted, that he recited the symbols that were to appear in the thangka. Do you remember them?”

Pema concentrated. “I—I remember the pilgrim. He said, ‘I come to seek the services of the painter they call Dhamo—the man of visions whose paintings recall the magic of the serpent spirits.' They kept the door of the studio closed. He—he had a very low voice and his hair was strange. It was black with a white patch in it. But I can't remember the words, not all of them. The lotus, the jewel-spitting mongoose, the knot…”

Tashi stopped his pacing. “I have seen that man,” he said. “He was the pilgrim on the road. His hair—black with a tuft of white like a blaze on a black yak. He carried a walking stick. He had little else with him. A blanket, a bowl, a book and a meager supply of food.”

“Yes,” said Pema. “That was him.”

Li Du looked from one to the other. They returned his look curiously. “You mean,” Li Du said, “that the pilgrim Pema met here, the pilgrim who commissioned the thangka, was the same pilgrim you met on the road?”

“He must have been,” said Tashi. He and Pema exchanged uncomprehending glances.

The pilgrim,
Li Du thought. He closed his eyes. He had been mistaken. But if that was the case, if what they said was true, then—

He rose abruptly to his feet, strode to the door that connected the chapel to the studio, and opened it. The room was almost completely dark. The light from the butter lamps barely reached the threshold. He scanned the inky shadows, furnishing the room from memory. Shelves cluttered with pots and brushes, a table, a cold hearth … His thoughts caught on themselves.
A cold hearth.
He swung around and faced the chapel. His gaze moved to the eight tongues of flame suspended on the altar, then down to the bodies in front of them. Beside the recumbent Sonam sat the white form of Dhamo, bound upright, waiting.

Slowly, Li Du approached the stiff, wrapped form. He stepped carefully around Sonam's feet and knelt beside Dhamo's body. Even in the cold, the odor of death had begun to hover around the corpse. Li Du reached for the place where the end of the cloth tied the right hand to the knee. He untied it, and began carefully to unwrap the rough white material from the limb.

“What are you doing?” Horror distorted Tashi's features as he moved forward to stop Li Du. “The body was washed. The symbol is not there.”

“I am not looking for the symbol,” Li Du said. Tashi obeyed the authority in his voice and halted.

The cloth came away easily—it had been wrapped loosely, and as Li Du guided it from the body he saw Tashi's eyes narrow. “That is not how I wrapped him,” Tashi said.

Li Du continued to unwind the outermost layer of the shroud. He moved up the body's left arm to the shoulder, gathering loops of material in one hand. He passed the bunched cloth across the front of the torso, exposing a deeper layer of shroud, and stopped.

Behind him, he heard a sharp intake of breath.

“Is that—” Pema moved closer, Tashi beside him.

“It is Dhamo's final painting,” Li Du said.

He looped the length of cloth once more around the body, revealing what was hidden beneath it. Charcoal outlines spread across a background of clean white. Green fields and blue sky cast an oily gleam in the light of the butter lamps. Careful not to disarrange the final layer of shroud that clung to the dead man's skin, Li Du freed the thangka from the wrappings that had obscured it.

“We must return to the manor,” he said. “I need your help, if you will give it to me.”

Tashi's reply was instant. “What can we do?” Pema did not need to speak. He stood solemnly beside his brother, awaiting instruction.

“Hamza will be at the kitchen hearth,” said Li Du. “You must send him to me without drawing attention. I will wait for him at the manor door.”

“You know who killed Dhamo,” said Pema. His voice, though quiet, did not shake. “And my uncle?”

Li Du nodded. “There is only one thing left to do to be certain. If I am correct, then I will be able to explain the circle bound in gold and blue. I will tell you the meaning of the white mirror.”

 

Chapter 27

Li Du did not see the first star take its place in the sky, but he found it there when he looked up. The sight of it led him to look for others. Wherever his gaze rested, stars appeared, as if ignited by his search for them. Before long, the sky was filled with scattered light.

Hamza appeared beside him in the dark. “The two young men are changed,” he said, “especially the taller one. Some transformation has occurred. Did they retrieve a butter lamp that was burning at the bottom of a well?”

Li Du kept his eyes on the stars. “It is you who are always telling me that names are important,” he said. “Names can bind, or liberate.”

“Do not speak to me as I speak to you, librarian. It is very disconcerting.”

Li Du turned to him. “There is something I must do,” he said quietly. “And there is someone in particular who would wish to prevent me from doing it. I need time. Can you keep everyone around the kitchen fire?”

Hamza's eyes glittered. “That is a service I am delighted to perform. What is it that you must do?”