The steward opened the door and motioned Christopher through. For a moment, he thought they had abruptly left the monastery and gone outside. He stood on the threshold, bewildered, trying to make sense of the sight that met his gaze.
Snow fell in patches, bright and translucent, fine white flakes like the forms of tiny angels descending, wing upon white wing, in heavy, dreaming multitudes. Someone had lit thousands of butter lamps and placed them all around the room: they lay thick on the snow-covered ground, a shifting carpet of fireflies catching breath.
The tiny flames trembled and cast pale patterns on walls of naked ice.
Everywhere, a caul of snow and ice lay silent upon the sleeping room, veil upon white veil, glaze upon frosted glaze, year upon frozen year. It was a room of ice and ivory, its broken ceiling open to the sky and its mirrored walls exposed to the endless breath of the mountains. Shafts of sunlight lay everywhere like slanting rods of glass: the snow fell through them, flickering as it dropped earth wards On plinths throughout the room, statues of gods and goddesses stood unrecognizable beneath thick garments of tattered frost. Their hair was white and stiff with icicles; from their frozen hands, long strands of ice trailed to the floor.
At the far end of the long chamber, hidden away among shadows, in an area out of reach of the shafts of sunlight, Christopher made out a grey figure seated cross-legged on a throne of cushions. Slowly, feeling his heart trip repeatedly in his breast, he made his way towards the shadows. The figure did not move, did not call out. He sat immobile, hands resting on his knees, back straight. His eyes were fixed on Christopher.
The figure was dressed in the simple robes of a monk. On his head, he wore a pointed cap with long ear-flaps that hung down to below his shoulders. His face was partly hidden in shadows. It seemed lined and full of sadness. The eyes, above all, ached with sadness. Christopher stood in front of him, not knowing what to do or say. He realized that he had not brought a khata scarf with him, that he could not perform the ritual of greeting. Some time passed, then the stranger raised his right hand gently and motioned to Christopher.
“Please,” he said, ‘be seated. You do not have to stand. I have had a chair brought for you.”
For the first time, Christopher noticed a low chair just on his left. He sat down, feeling self-conscious. He could sense the old man’s eyes on him, scrutinizing him with a fierce intensity mixed with terrible sadness “My name is Dorje Losang Rinpoche. I am the Dorje Lama, the abbot of this monastery. They tell me your name is Christopher, Christopher Wylam.”
“Yes,” said Christopher.
“That’s correct.”
“You have come a long way,” said the Dorje Lama.
“Yes,” said Christopher, his voice feeling cracked and awkward.
“From. India. From Kalimpong.”
“Further than that,” the abbot contradicted him.
“Yes,” Christopher said.
“Further than that.”
“Why have you come? Please be truthful with me. No-one comes here for a trivial reason. There must be matters of life and death to bring a man to us. What has brought you here?”
Christopher hesitated. He feared and distrusted the abbot. This man had played a major role in what had happened. For all he knew, Zamyatin was himself a pawn in a greater game.
“I was brought here,” he replied.
“By three of your monks:
Tsarong Rinpoche and two trap as Tsarong Rinpoche killed my guide, a Nepalese boy named Lhaten. He killed him merely because Lhaten was injured. Before I answer any of your questions, I demand justice for the boy.”
“You are making a serious charge.” The abbot bent forward, as though trying to see the truth in Christopher’s face.
“It is not my only charge. I met Tsarong Rinpoche before that in Kalimpong. He admitted killing someone else there: an Irish doctor called Cormac. Did you know of that? Was he acting under your orders?”
The abbot sighed and straightened himself again. His face was that of an old man, but extremely pale. The eyes were still pools of sadness, but Christopher sensed another emotion in that look.
Compassion? Love? Pity?
“No,” he said.
“He was not acting under orders from me. I had no reason to want either the doctor or your guide dead. Please believe me. I have no wish to cause the death of any sentient being.
My purpose on earth is to diminish suffering in any way I can. If Tsarong Rinpoche has acted wrongly, he will be punished.”
The abbot paused and blew his nose gently on a small handkerchief which he took from inside his long sleeve. The ordinariness of the man’s action was more reassuring to Christopher than his words.
“Tsarong Rinpoche tells me,” the abbot continued, ‘that when he met you, you were on the borders of Tibet, just beyond the Sebula. Is this true?”
Christopher nodded.
“Yes.”
“He also tells me that he warned you not to leave India, not to attempt to enter Tibet. Is that also true?”
“Yes. That is true as well.”
“You had been warned of possible danger. Danger to yourself and anyone who travelled with you. You chose a route that you must have known to be almost impassable. Tsarong Rinpoche tells me he thinks you were already seeking for this place, for Dorje-la.
Is that true too?”
Christopher did not say anything.
“You do not deny it is true? Very well, then I must conclude that something of great importance drove you here. Or perhaps I should say “drew you here”. What would that thing be, Wylamla? Can you tell me?”
Christopher remained silent at first, his gaze fixed on the old man. On the abbot’s chest, a silver gau caught particles of light from the lamps and transformed them into shadows.
“Not a thing,” Christopher said at last.
“A person. My son. His name is William. I believe he is here, in this monastery. I have come here to take him home.”
The abbot stared at Christopher with a look of intense sadness.
All around, snow kept falling. It lay sprinkled on the old man’s hair and covered the cushions on which he sat.
“Why do you think your son is here, Mr. Wylam? What possible reason could there be for his presence in this place?”
“I don’t know the reason. All I know is that a man called Zamyatin ordered my son’s kidnap. Zamyatin’s instructions were carried out of Tibet by a monk named Tsewong. Tsewong is dead, but a letter was found on him that identified him as your representative. Carpenter, the Scottish missionary in Kalimpong, has told me that my son was taken to Tibet by a Mongolian called Mishig. Mishig is Zamyatin’s agent.”
The Dorje Lama listened to all of this with his head bent, as though Christopher’s words weighed him down. There was a lengthy silence.
“You know a great deal, Wylam-la,” he said finally.
“A very great deal. And yet you know very little.”
“But I’m right. My son is here. Isn’t he?”
The abbot folded his hands.
“Yes,” he said.
“You are right. Your son is here. He is alive and well. He is being looked after with the greatest possible attention.
There is nothing for you to worry about.”
“I want to see him. Take me to him at once.” Christopher stood up. He felt faint and angry.
“I’m sorry,” the abbot said.
“That will not be possible. There is so much you do not understand.