The flint caught, sending sparks across his hand, but there was no flame. Desperately he pressed his thumb down, spinning the wheel again and again. At last a tiny blue flame flickered up, no bigger than the nail of his thumb. Luca quickly ran it under the fabric until the fire spread slowly, moving with an almost invisible flame. Then, sliding the bottle down into the hole, he packed handfuls of snow over the opening and stepped back quickly.
Seconds passed. Nothing happened. Luca stood with his hands clutched in front of his chest, willing the fuel to catch. He heard more shouts and moved to one side, staring down into the gulley.
The first of the line of soldiers was nearing the summit. Luca could see his face clearly now, his cheeks flushed with colour from the effort of wading up through the deep snow. His jacket was unbuttoned, flapping out behind him, and his bare hands were clamped round the grip of his rifle, the finger already resting against the trigger.
The soldier looked up, straight into Luca’s eyes. The muzzle of his rifle instinctively swivelled towards him, but then the soldier’s eyes flicked towards the huge overhanging snow cornice just to his left. He lowered the rifle, but surged forward with renewed energy. He was almost at the top.
‘Shit!’ Luca screamed, looking down at the pile of snow. It hadn’t worked.
For a moment he glanced towards Geltang, every instinct telling him to follow Shara and run for it. Then, diving forward, he clawed back the snow and reached inside. He pulled the water bottle to the surface, staring down at the improvised wick.
The flame had gone out.
Brushing the snow off, he lit the wick again and slammed the bottle back into the snow, throwing only a single handful over the opening before flinging himself backwards. Just beyond the edge of the snow cornice, he heard a shout. He turned to see the top half of the soldier standing a pace below the ridge. His rifle was raised, pointing at Luca.
It was over.
Chapter 55
‘Look at him,’ Rega shouted out across the sea of expectant faces. ‘The seventh Abbot of Geltang and High Lama of the blue order. Yet he is nothing more than a tired old man!’
Light pierced the Great Temple from tall windows set either side of the gilded doors. The night’s torches were still lit but slowly dying as the full light of morning streamed into the crowded chamber.
‘Do not be deceived,’ Rega continued, his voice straining, ‘he is no great leader. He just rots in his chambers, allowing our sacred monastery to go to ruin as he follows his own selfish path. Even now the Chinese approach, yet he does nothing!’
The Abbot was standing in front of the dais wrapped in the coarse, brown clothing of the Perfect Life. The tunic had been ripped open below his chest so that his narrow shoulders were bare, the skin waxen and pale from so many days spent closeted from the daylight. His head was lowered, eyes shut, while Rega ranted just above him.
For nearly an hour the public denunciation had continued, with Rega stirring the crowd into a frenzy. When the Abbot had first been paraded before them, silence had descended across the Great Temple. Each monk had stared in mute amazement at the filthy old man before them, his clothes in rags and his head bent low. Could this really be their sacred leader?
But as Rega’s accusations continued, the untouchable aura that once seemed to surround the Abbot had been challenged by the mocking contempt from the novices on the edge of the dais. Their shouts of derision filled the temple as they hung on Rega’s every word, baying for action.
Standing against a side wall, Dorje burned with frustration. He stared out impotently across the sea of sneering faces and the whole incredible scene before him. Why didn’t the Abbot say something? Why didn’t he deny these ridiculous charges and win back his monastery?
Dorje watched the mass of monks surge forward again. There were over five hundred of them crammed into the temple, shouting and jostling for a better view, while their elders stood, like Dorje, on the periphery. They remained in silence, unable to make themselves heard above the noise and chaos.
Then Dorje understood. It was the same for the Abbot. Even if he tried to protest, no one would have heard him.
A soft breeze blew through the temple. Dorje looked up as the flames of the candles flickered. The gilded doors were being forced back on their hinges, and beyond them two figures had stepped into the light. He saw Shara’s long black hair and the boy clutched in her arms.
Dorje moved towards the back of the dais. He jostled against the other monks, fighting his way through, until he could see the trumpeters standing in a line.
‘Sound the arrival!’ he ordered above the din. The first of the trumpeters stared at him in confusion.
‘Do as I say!’ Dorje yelled. A moment later, the silver trumpet blasted out a long, shimmering note. The noise of the crowd lessened, as Rega spun round to see what was happening.
‘Who ordered you to play?’ he thundered, but Dorje had already reached the back of the dais and clambered up on top. He rushed forward across the stage, looking out at the crowd.
‘Silence!’ he shouted, pointing towards the door. ‘Silence for the Panchen Lama — the rightful leader of Tibet.’
Silence fell as all eyes turned to the temple doors where Babu slowly slipped from Shara’s grasp. He stood uncertainly by her side, his large brown eyes staring from face to face in the crowd.
‘So the boy returns,’ Rega whispered, craning his neck round.
A muttering began as Shara led Babu forward by the hand. The monks pressed back and a ragged space was cleared all the way to the dais and the Abbot’s marble throne. Babu walked through it, his felt boots taking small, steady steps across the vast temple floor. His heavy sheepskin jacket was bunched up around his shoulders so that his chin was buried in the soft wool while his eyes stared out above, passing slowly from monk to monk.
As they approached, Rega raised a finger.
‘This is indeed the new reincarnation of the Panchen Lama,’ he shouted. ‘He has been within our very walls, yet the Abbot kept him from us. He deceived us all.’ Rega stalked forward to the edge of the dais. ‘Listen to me, my brothers. I will take the boy and restore him to his rightful place. I will return him to his seat in Shigatse and win back our country!’
There was a cheer from some of the novices as Shara and Babu came to halt in front of the dais. Shara was staring at Rega, at his gold robes and the Dharmachakra raised in his right hand, unable to believe what had happened in her absence. He had taken control of the monastery.
Averting her eyes from his lifeless gaze, she turned to the Abbot, reaching forward and holding on to his arm.
‘The Chinese are coming,’ she whispered. ‘We must evacuate the monastery.’
Before the Abbot could answer, Rega turned back towards the crowd. He had heard what she had said.
‘The moment has come, my brothers!’ he bellowed. ‘The Chinese are finally upon us. It is time to fight!’
At this the Abbot finally raised his hand, trying to shout above the wave of fresh panic and shouting that erupted.
‘No! Do not give in to violence. We must evacuate, go deeper into the mountains…’