Christopher held up his lamp. From the ceiling near the entrance hung the stuffed car cases of several animals a bear, a yak, a wild dog. These ancient, rotting things were an integral part of every gon-kang, as much an element in the place’s dark mystery as the figures of the gods on the altar. Christopher felt his skin crawl with disgust as he passed underneath, crouching low to avoid contact with the mouldering fur hanging loosely from the poorly preserved cadavers. They had been hanging there for God only knew how long, and would go on hanging in the same places until they finally decomposed and fell apart. Generations of spiders had added a thick outer carapace of their own to the mildewed fur. Dusty cobwebs brushed Christopher’s cheeks as he went through.
It was old. He knew as soon as he was inside that the gon-kang was an ancient place, older than the monastery, half as old as the mountains themselves. It was a cave, low and dark and dedicated from the beginning of time to the most hidden mysteries. The dance-masks hung by thick ropes from the ceiling to Christopher’s right, images of death and madness, painted long ago and set here in the darkness with the grim guardians of the monastery. Once or twice a year, they would be taken out and worn in the ritual dances. They would turn and turn to the sound of drums and flutes, like the naked girl Christopher had seen in the orphanage, her face a mask hiding the dull terror beneath. The faces of the masks were grotesque and larger than life the malign features of gods and demi-gods and demons, faces that would transform a dancing monk to an immortal being and a man to a god for a day.
Near the masks, set against the wall, were piles of old armour spears and swords and breastplates, hauberks and crested helmets, Chinese lances and pointed Tartar hats. It was ancient armour, rusted and useless for the most part, kept there as a symbol of sudden death, weapons for the old gods to wield in their battle against the forces of evil.
Standing before the rear wall were the statues of the yi-dam deities, their many arms and heads swathed in old strips of cloth placed there as offerings. Yamantaka, horned and bull-headed and festooned with a coronet of human skulls, leered out of the darkness. In the flickering shadows, the black figures seemed to move, as though they too were dancing in their eternal night.
Filled with a foreboding he could neither understand nor master, Christopher went closer.
Something moved that was not a shadow. Christopher shrank back, holding his lamp out in front of him. Before the altar at the back of the room, facing theyi-dam, sat a dark figure. As Christopher watched, the figure moved again, prostrating briefly in front of the gods before resuming a seated position. It was a monk, wrapped up against the bitter cold, engaged in meditation. He did not appear to have noticed the light from Christopher’s lamp or heard him enter Christopher was uncertain what to do next. He guessed this must be the monk who had written the letter, but now he was about to confront him, he felt suddenly wary. Was this perhaps nothing more than an elaborate trap, set by Zamyatin or Tsarong Rinpoche? He had, after all, just violated the monastery’s innermost sanctum. Had that been the intention all along to provide someone with an adequate justification for his death?
The figure moved, not abruptly like someone startled, but gently, like a man woken from sleep and still half in the world of his dream. He stood up and turned. A shadow fell across his face as he did so, veiling him.
“You have come,” he said. The voice was soft, like a girl’s.
Christopher guessed the monk was a ge-tsul, a novice. But what would a novice want with him?
“Was it you who wrote the letter?” Christopher asked, stepping towards the figure.
“Please! Don’t come any closer,” the monk said, stepping back further into shadow.
Christopher froze. He sensed that the ge-tsul was nervous, in some way frightened by Christopher’s presence.
“Why did you ask me to come? What do you want?”
“You are the father of the pee-ling child?”
“Yes.”
“And you have travelled from far away to find him?”
“Yes. Do you know where he is? Can you take me to him?”
The monk made a hushing sound.
“Do not speak so loudly. The walls of Dorje-la have ears.” He paused.
“Yes,” he continued, “I know where your son is being kept.
And I can take you there.”
“When?”
“Not now. Perhaps not for several days.”
“Is he in any danger?”
The novice hesitated.
“No,” he said.
“I don’t think so. But something is happening in Dorje-la, something I do not understand. I think we may all be in danger very soon.”
“I want to take William away from here. I want to take him back through the passes to India. Can you help me?”
There was silence. Shadows gathered about the small figure by the altar.
“I can help you take him from Dorje-la,” he said at last.
“But the way to India is too hazardous. If you want your son to leave here alive, you must trust me. Will you do that?”
Christopher had no choice. However mysterious, this was his only ally in a world he did not understand.
“Yes,” he replied.
“I will trust you.”
“With your life?”
“Yes.”
“With your son’s life?”
He hesitated. But William’s life was already in jeopardy.
“Yes.”
“Go back to your room. I will send another message to you there.
Be sure that you destroy any letters I write to you. And speak of this to no-one. No-one, do you understand? Even if they appear to be a friend. Do you promise?”
“Yes,” Christopher whispered.
“I promise.”
“Very well. Now you must leave.”
“Who are you?” Christopher asked.
“Please, you must not ask. Later, when we are safe, I will tell you.
But not now. There is too much danger.”
“But what if something happens? If I need to find you?”
“You are not to look for me. I will find you when it is time.
Please leave now.”
“At least let me see your face.”
“No, you must not!”
But Christopher raised his lamp and stepped forward, letting !
the light fall directly on the shadows before him. The mysterious stranger was not a novice, not a monk. Long strands of jet-black hair framed small, delicate features. An embroidered tunic shaped itself about a slender body. The stranger was a woman. In the shadowed light, her green eyes sparkled and the tiny yellow flame cast drops of liquid gold over her cheeks. Her hair was filled with golden ashes.
She stared at Christopher, her eyes startled. One hand sprang to her face, covering her from his gaze. He took another step, but she recoiled, stumbling back into the shadows once more. He heard her feet run softly across the stone floor. Holding the lamp high, he followed, but the light fell on nothing but figures of stone and gold. On the walls, paint crumbled and fell slowly to dust.
Time stood still. The bright patterns of a dozen heavens and a dozen hells shuddered like tinsel in the darkness. The girl had vanished utterly into the shadows out of which she had come.
He returned to his room, passing through the sleeping monastery like a phantom. As far as he was aware, no-one had seen him leave or re-enter the room. About half an hour after his return, he heard the sound of fumbling at his door again, and when he tried the handle he found it had been locked once more.