Time had no meaning in the mist, and he had no idea what part of the day it was when he first heard the footsteps. He listened, petrified. There were demons in the passes. Demons and ro-lang, the standing corpses of men struck by lightning, who walked the mountains with eyes closed, unable to die and be reborn. In the long nights of the lab rang Pema Chindamani had entranced him with spooky tales, and he had listened pop-eyed in the candlelight.
But here, in the mist, her stories returned to freeze his blood.
A figure appeared, tall, shadowy, swathed in black. The boy pressed himself back against the rock, praying that Lord Chenrezi or the Lady Tara would come to his protection. He muttered the mantras Tobchen had taught him. Om Ara Pa Tsa Na Dhi, he recited, using the mantra of Manjushri he had recently learned.
“Rinpoche, is that you?” came a muffled voice. The boy closed his eyes tightly and recited the mantra faster than ever.
“Dorje Samdup Rinpoche? This is Thondrup Chophel. I have come from Dorje-la in search of you.”
He felt a hand on his arm and almest bit his tongue in fear.
“Please, Rinpoche, don’t be afraid. Open your eyes. It’s me, Thondrup Chophel. I’ve come to take you back.”
At last the boy conquered his fear and allowed himself to look.
It was not Thondrup Chophel. It was not anyone he knew. It was a demon in black, with a fearsome, painted face that scowled at him. He leapt up, thinking to run. A hand gripped him by the arm and held him fast. He looked round at the demon, panicking.
The creature lifted a hand to its face and removed a mask. It was a leather mask, like one of those the travellers had worn three days earlier. Underneath was the familiar face of Thondrup Chophel.
“I’m sorry I frightened you, lord,” the man said. He paused.
“Where is Geshe Tobchen?”
The little Rinpoche explained.
“Then let us be grateful to Lord Chenrezi that he guided me to you. Look, even the mist is lifting. When we have eaten, it will be time to leave.”
They ate in silence at first, plain tea and tsampa as always.
Thondrup Chophel had never been a talkative man. The boy had never liked him: he was the Geku of his college in the monastery, the official responsible for disciplining the monks. Samdup remembered him in his heavy robe with padded shoulders, striding between the rows of shaven heads at services in the great temple hall of Dorje-la. He never disciplined Samdup personally that had been the task of Geshe Tobchen, the boy’sjegtengegen, his chief guardian and teacher. But Thondrup Chophel had often given him fierce looks and was never backward about reporting him to Tobchen.
“Have you come to take me to Gharoling?” the boy asked.
“Gharoling? Why should we go to Gharoling, lord? I have come to take you back to Dorje-la Gompa.”
“But Geshe Tobchen was taking me to Gharoling, to study with Geshe Tsering Rinpoche. He said I was not to return to Dorje-la.
Not under any circumstances.”
The monk shook his head.
“Please do not argue, lord. I have been instructed to bring you back. The abbot is concerned for you. Geshe Tobchen did not have his permission to take you away, let alone bring you to Gharoling of all places. You are too young to understand. But you must return with me. You have no choice.”
“But Geshe Tobchen warned me .. .”
“Yes? What did he warn you of?”
“Of... danger.”
“Where? At Dorje-la?”
The boy nodded. He felt unhappy, unable to defend his teacher’s wishes.
“You must be mistaken, lord. There is no danger at Dorje-la.
You will be safe there.”
“And if I choose to go to Gharoling myself?”
He saw the anger rise in the Geku. He was a powerful man with a short temper. Samdup had often seen him mete out punishment.
“You would die before you reached Gharoling. This is not the path.
Gharoling is far from here. I have come to take you back to Dorje-la.
There will be no argument. You have no choice.”
The boy looked into the mist. The world was indeed a terrible place. Animals and men fell into its empty places and did not return. If he stayed here, he too would fall and be swallowed up.
Geshe Tobchen would have known what to do. He had always known. But Geshe Tobchen was gone into the mist. There was no choice: he would have to return to Dorje-la.
PART TWO
Incarnation
Dorje-La “I remained to dream the nightmare out to the end.”
Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
They left Kalimpong late at night, when it was fully dark and not even a glimmer of moonlight could betray them. Only the barking of stray dogs marked their passage. On a balcony somewhere, hidden from them, a woman was sobbing into the darkness. In the Knox Homes, behind the church, bed-time prayers were over; a little girl lay sleepless in her bed, listening to the dismal cry of a screech-owl.
Christopher had spent the rest of the day in a disused outhouse while Lhaten bought supplies a few here, a few there, so as not to arouse suspicion. He had purchased a little food, mostly tsampa or roasted barley flour, some butter, some tea, some strips of dried beef, and salt. Christopher had also given him a list of items whose purpose Lhaten could not guess: a bottle of dark hair-dye, iodine, walnut juice, some lemons, and a jar of glue. He also changed a little money, giving rupees for Tibetan trangkas at the rate of one for five. At his own discretion, Lhaten had further changed some of the trangkas for smaller copper coins: only a very wealthy man or a pee-ling would carry that many silver trangkas, and he didn’t think his new friend would want to be identified as either.
At the Post Office in Prince Albert Street, Lhaten sent a telegram to Winterpole: “News of Uncle William. Complications here make it impossible stay Auntie’s. Friends suggest camping in hills. May be out of touch for next month.” He also left a more detailed sealed message at the British Trade Agency, for Frazer to transmit to London by a more secure route. It was to let the folks at home know how young Christopher was getting on in distant India, and it asked Winterpole to get Delhi CID moving on an investigation of Carpenter and the Knox Homes.
Before leaving, Christopher transformed himself. Shivering, he stripped to the skin and daubed himself liberally with a mixture made from the walnut juice and iodine. When the dark stain had dried, he dressed again, putting on heavy clothes suitable for the conditions ahead. Over these, he draped an ensemble of evil smelling rags and much-patched cast-offs that Lhaten had dredged up from somewhere unspeakable. Christopher had not asked where he preferred not to know. The hair-dye worked well enough for something labelled: “Phatak’s World-Renouned Hare-die and Restore, Effektive against Greyness of He’d, Baldiness, and Skalp Itchingness.” There was enough left in the bottle for a touch-up every week or so provided Christopher’s hair hadn’t all fallen out by then. The last touch was the most difficult: he squeezed a few drops of lemon directly into his eyes. It stung like hell, but when he was able to look in the mirror again, he could tell that his eyes had lost most of their blueness and were now dark enough to match his skin and hair.
They travelled as far as they could that night, to be well away from Kalimpong by morning. Their first destination was Namchi, about seven miles to the north-west. In the darkness, without sign or token, they passed over the border between British India and Sikkim. Christopher knew that more than a physical frontier had been crossed. The mountains that lay ahead were in the mind as much as in nature.