He set William down on the couch and stepped towards her.
Tentatively, he took her in his arms. The shock of what had happened was rapidly leaving him, and he realized that it would not be long before someone came to investigate the gunshots.
“Chindamani,” he whispered.
“We’ve got to go. Zamyatin will send someone to see what’s going on. The monk who was here will tell others. We have to leave now or we’ll never make it.”
She was still staring ahead, her eyes unfocused, her body rigid.
He took her by the shoulders and began to shake her. She did not respond.
Suddenly, he noticed Samdup by his side. The boy had made a tremendous effort to shut out the horrors he had seen.
“Chindamani,” he said.
“Please answer me. Thepee-ling is right we have to escape. Please hurry or they’ll find us here.”
As if the boy’s voice worked some sort of magic on her, the girl blinked and began to relax. Her arms dropped to her side and she looked down at Samdup.
“I feel cold,” she said in a scarcely audible whisper.
Samdup looked up at Christopher.
“There are things for the journey in that chest,” he said.
“I was supposed to get them ready, but I had to look after Sonam and forgot.”
“William,” said Christopher.
“Come and help us get ready to leave. Help Samdup take things out of the chest.”
While the boys hurried to sort out clothes, tents, and bags of food, Christopher helped Chindamani to a seat. He put his arm round her, remembering how, not so very long before, their roles had been reversed.
“Where are we going, Ka-ris To-feh?” she asked.
“Away from here,” he answered.
“Far away.”
She smiled wanly and reached down to pick up some bags from the floor.
“Don’t waste time tying those on,” said Christopher.
“We can do that later. The main thing at the moment is to get out of this room.”
Chindamani turned and took a last look at Sonam. The old woman lay back on the bed where she had fallen, a startled look in her eyes. Chindamani bent down and straightened her arms and legs. With one hand she closed her eyes, then kissed her softly on the lips.
A sound of running feet came from the passage outside.
“Quickly!” Christopher hissed.
“Let’s go!”
While Christopher held back the hanging, Chindamani slid the door aside and stepped in after Samdup and William. Christopher followed, closing the door behind him with a click. Even if someone drew the hanging aside, the entrance would remain invisible to the casual eye.
A lamp was burning on a bracket nearby. Chindamani took it and led the way along the passage. Behind them they could hear muffled voices coming from the apartment they had left.
“What happened, Chindamani?” Christopher asked, as soon as they had put some distance between themselves and the entrance.
“What did you do to him? Why did he kill himself?”
She did not answer at first. Christopher could not see her face as she walked on ahead of him, holding the lamp. The walls of the passage were rough and unfinished; but at one point someone one of Chindamani’s predecessors, no doubt had painted a domestic scene, a mother and her children standing outside their farm, surrounded by sheep and yaks. The light played on the painting for a moment, then passed on into darkness.
“It was a curse,” she said at last, to no-one in particular.
“A curse? Surely you don’t believe .. .?”
“Sonam didn’t know what it meant.” Chindamani continued, as though she had not heard him.
“It was a Tantric curse, a very powerful one. She should not have known it that was what frightened him. Only the most advanced adepts know it. But Sonam used to come down this passage to the Lha-khang when they were undergoing instruction. It fascinated her, and she learned all sorts of things. She understood nothing, of course; but she memorized whole rituals, whole spells .. . whole curses!” She stopped and turned around to face Christopher.
“I think Tsarong Rinpoche was almost mad with guilt already.
When he heard that curse spoken by someone who had no knowledge of such matters as he thought he must have imagined that the gods were speaking, condemning him.”
“And you. How did you know how to continue?”
“Oh, Sonam taught me all the things she heard down in the Lhakhang.
Sometimes we’d go together and watch the rituals for hours. But .. .”
She hesitated.
“There was something else, something that made me do what I did. The feeling’s gone now. But when he shot Sonam, I felt as though something took me over.”
“Anger?”
“No, more than that. Something quite different. I can’t explain.”
“There’s no need. Come on, we’ve got to get moving. You still have to explain to me how we’re supposed to get out of Dorje-la.”
From the Tara chapel, a series of wooden steps and short passages led them down to the gon-kang. The small crypt-chapel was empty, save for the stuffed animals and gods that kept watch over it. A few lamps were lit, filling parts of the room with a creamy, yellow glow.
Chindamani explained to Christopher the details of the escape route described by Sonam. He listened to her grimly, unable to guess how much of the old woman’s story might be true and how much mere legend.
They tightened their travelling clothes and tied on the items of equipment Chindamani had prepared. Christopher found a short rusty sword among the small clutter of weapons left in the gonkang and slipped it into his belt.
“William,” he said. The boy was close by his side, determined not to let his father out of his sight again. Christopher reached into a fold of his chuba and drew out something soft. It was a small and very battered teddy-bear.
“I’ve brought old Samuel from Carfax,” said Christopher, holding the ragged toy out to the boy.
“I thought you might like to have him with you. To remind you of home.”
The boy took the bear and hugged it to his chest. It had always been his favourite toy, his inseparable bedtime companion, repaired, restuffed, restitched half a dozen times. He looked up at his father and, for the first time, smiled. With Samuel, he could face any number of dangers.
Samdup watched, bewildered. Stuffed animals were nothing new to him, but he had never seen one like this before. And why did the strange pee-ling boy want to carry one round with him? Was it some sort of god?
William put Samuel into his bag.
“We’ll soon be back in Carfax, Samuel,” he said. Christopher smiled.
How he wished he could believe that.
They rolled back several rugs in front of the main altar. Underneath, they could make out the shape of a narrow hatchway set flush with the floor and provided with a brass ring.
Christopher turned to Chindamani. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes gleamed in the sickly light. He scarcely dared look directly at her.
“You don’t have to come,” he said.
“You or Samdup. You’ll be quite safe, I’m sure of it. Tsarong Rinpoche is dead. You were a threat only to him. Zamyatin will find it better to let you live. He’ll use you as a symbol, but you will be alive. And the boy he’s more use to Zamyatin alive than dead. You don’t know what there is down there. Or what could be waiting on the journey.”
“I was responsible for the Rinpoche’s death,” Chindamani said.
“Or at least that is what the monk who was with him will say. His followers won’t stand for that. And Samdup wouldn’t be safe with Zam-ya-ting. You know that. You know why.”