The doctor shook his head.
“He could have, but he didn’t. It wasn’t in his handwriting. It wasn’t in any handwriting I recognized. But I know one thing:
whoever wrote it had been brought up speaking English. Speaking it and writing it.”
“The letter said Tsewong was an emissary.”
“That’s right.”
“For someone called the Dorje Lama. I’ve never heard of such a person.
Have you?”
Cormac did not answer straight away. He watched the fire on the hillside. Someone was out there in the snow, feeding the flames, watching.
“Yes,” he answered, in a voice so quiet Christopher was not sure he had spoken.
“They don’t talk about him often. And never to foreigners. But one of my patients told me a little oh, it was years ago. He’s a sort of legend. There’s a monastery up there somewhere, a secret place. People are frightened of it. And the Dorje Lama is the abbot. There’s been a Dorje Lama for hundreds of years, so they say.”
The doctor turned and faced Christopher. The effects of the whiskey had vanished, to be replaced by a haunted look.
“And Tsewong was his emissary?” Christopher said.
“So the letter said.”
“Do you believe it?”
Cormac hesitated.
“I think,” he said, ‘you’d better see what I have to show you.
Come in the morning. We’ll talk about it then. I’ll tell you
everything I know.”
Christopher woke the next morning with the worst headache he had ever known. He took more of the tablets Cormac had left, but they did little good. Outside the rest-home, the girl had resumed her singing. She sang the same song, as though she knew no other;
but this morning her voice tore like a rusty blade through
Christopher’s head, and he cursed her as he dressed.
He shaved, cutting himself twice, and combed his hair, but he still felt untidy: there was a section of his head he could not bear to touch with the comb. Downstairs, he paused just long enough to drink a cup of black tea and eat some buttered chap atis The boy, Lhaten, looked at him oddly, but said nothing. The house was almost empty the caravaneers had gone off that morning early as planned, but Christopher had fallen into a disturbed sleep by then and had not heard them leave. The place seemed dull without them.
As Christopher was leaving, Lhaten approached him nervously.
“Are you all right, sahib? The doctor-sahib said you had an accident last night. He said you fell on the stairs.”
Christopher nodded.
“Yes,” he said, ‘that’s right. I fell on the stairs. I’ll be more careful tonight.”
A look of concern passed across Lhaten’s face.
“Yes, sahib. You must be careful. Call me when you come tonight. I’ll be awake.”
Christopher sensed that the boy either guessed or knew more than he said.
“Thank you, Lhaten, I’ll remember that.”
Lhaten flashed a smile and vanished towards the kitchen.
Christopher heard the shrill voice of the Lepcha woman.
Outside, the sun was shining and the air smelt fresh and clear.
Perhaps the world was clean after all, Christopher thought;
perhaps he carried the dirt around inside himself.
To his left, he heard the voice of the mysterious girl singing her bhajan. He turned and saw her, sitting on the ground with her back towards him. Long black hair fell gracefully down her back. Her head moved gently from side to side in time with her singing. He could just see that she was working with something on the ground in front of her.
An ekdm shamero at bangs hi bejechilo kanone.
One day that flute of the dark lord’s Played again in the forest.
Something pulled him towards her. He wanted to see her face, to watch her mouth as she sang, to watch her fingers move at her work. Softly, so as not to frighten her, he walked past her, then, several paces away, turned.
She did not see him looking at her. All her attention was focused on the object in front of her. She went on singing, like an angel whom nothing can distract from song. But her face was appalling in its ugliness, and misshapen legs stretched out in front of her like bent sticks. One eye was stitched tightly closed, and long scars disfigured her left cheek. Her skin was sore and blistered on face and arms and legs equally. But none of this horrified Christopher quite so much as the sight of what she was doing with her hands.
He thought it had been a dog, but he could not be sure. The knife she was using was blunt and rusted, and the work of butchery was painfully slow. The passers-by averted their gaze, shunning the girl and the meat she was preparing; but Christopher stood as though transfixed, unable to tear his eyes away from her. She sang gently as she worked, and Christopher realized that she was crooning to the dead animal in her lap. Her fingers were covered in blood, and the cuffs of her long sleeves were smeared with it.
Turning away, Christopher set off down the narrow, crowded street. Behind him, the mad girl’s voice rose and fell in an unending supplication of the beast. He remembered the dogs he had heard in the night, remembered their voices tearing the darkness.
He walked to the hospital through streets crowded with men and animals. The blind beggar was there on his spot in the bazaar again, muttering prayers beneath his breath. Christopher hurried it past, ignoring his cries. Out of an opening on his right, a small group of singing men came into the main street. They were Bauls, members of a wandering cult that sought God outside the rituals and ceremonies of organized religion. They carried simple musical instruments in their hands and played and sang as they walked.
As they approached him, Christopher recognized suddenly the song they were singing it was the same song the girl had been singing a few minutes earlier.
Bondhur bangs hi baje bujhi bipine Shamer bangs hi baje bujhi bipine He felt hemmed in, like someone in a nightmare, and ran on, the voices of the men ringing in his ears, and beneath them the girl’s voice, unforgettable and cold.
The hospital stood next door to the Government Dispensary, to which it was connected. It was a small place with only twenty eight beds, but it was smart and well kept. The small, white painted entrance hall was empty when Christopher stepped inside.
On the wall, a varnished wooden plaque commemorated the opening of the hospital and dedicated it to the glory of the Christian God. Beside it stood a two-tier dressing trolley holding several kidney dishes, a saline irrigator, and a pair of Cheatle’s forceps in a glass jar. In a white enamel basin, a blood-stained bandage intruded on the surrounding sterility. Above the trolley, a blonde haired Jesus, smug as a new pin, smiled down, surrounded by hordes of bright-faced, laughing children, none of whom looked remotely Indian.
“Kot hat,” Christopher called, his voice echoing in the stillness. A smell of ether drifted towards him. Somewhere, someone called for assistance and fell silent again. Someone else began to cough with a dry, racking sound that ended in vomiting. Metal banged against metal.
A peon appeared from nowhere. He was dressed in a starched white uniform with a tightly wound pugaree that bore the badge of the hospital.
“Did you call, sahib?”
“Yes,” said Christopher.
“I’d like to see Dr. Cormac; he’s expecting me. He said I would find him in his bungalow. Can you show me the way?”
“When you go out the main entrance, sahib, turn left. You will come to a row of deodars. There is a gate. Follow the path to the third bungalow. I would be happy to take you, sahib.”
What he meant, of course, was that he would be happy to keep an eye on Christopher.