“There’s no difference really.
But my friend said “khubilgan gegen”, meaning an enlightened incarnation, so I knew he was referring to someone of very high rank. Someone like the Maidari Buddha.”
“And did your friend tell you where this boy is being kept?”
Tsering shook his head.
“No. But I believe I know where this revolutionary club meets.
There is a large yurt just off one of the smaller alleyways in Ta Khure. I’ve seen my friend near there several times. If that is their centre, they may be holding the Lord Samdup there.”
Christopher pondered. It sounded as if Tsering was right and that the boy was here in Urga, waiting for Zamyatin to make his move.
“Did your friend say anything about another child, another incarnation?
A pee-ling incarnation?”
“I do not understand. Do you mean a trulku like the Dorje Lama?”
“Yes. He is the Dorje Lama’s grandson. He is my son.”
The lama shook his head again.
“No,” he said.
“He mentioned only a khubilgan. I think he meant a Tibetan. He said nothing about a. pee-ling trulku. I’m sorry.”
Chindamani took his hand and held it tightly.
“He will be there, Ka-ris, I’m sure of it. Please don’t worry.”
He pressed her hand in return.
“I know,” he said.
“But I’m becoming anxious now that we’re so close.”
He turned to Tsering.
“When can we take a look at what’s going on in this part?”
“It must be soon. We don’t have much time.”
“Why not?”
“The Lady Chindamani will explain.”
Christopher looked at her, puzzled.
Chindamani’s face grew serious. She bit her lip gently.
“It’s a prophecy, Ka-ris. The Maidari Buddha must appear on the Festival of Parinirvana.”
“Parinirvana?”
“The final entry of the Lord Buddha into nirvana, the state of heavenly bliss. The festival commemorates the day of his earthly death.”
“What does this prophecy say?”
She looked at Tsering, then back at Christopher.
“It says that the Buddha of the new age must appear on the day the last Buddha passed out of this world. They are one person.
The Buddha who entered nirvana must now return from bliss for the salvation of men. It says that he will return to earth in the Maidari Temple at Urga.”
“And if he fails to appear there on that day?”
She hesitated.
“He will have to die in order to be reborn yet again,” she said.
“If he is not proclaimed, he will return to the state of nirvana, where he will choose a new human vehicle for his next incarnation.”
“But if Samdup doesn’t appear this year, why can’t he do so next year?
Or the year after?”
She shook her head. A crow flew past her in a cloud of dust, its wings black and tattered.
“It must be this year,” she said. Her voice was low, almost a whisper.
“Do you remember,” she continued, ‘when you were in Dorje-la, your father told you of another prophecy?
“When Dorjela is ruled by a.pee-ling, the world shall be ruled from Dorje-la.”
He nodded. He remembered.
“Did your father tell you of another verse?”
Christopher thought.
“Yes,” he said.
“It referred to the son of a pee-ling’s son. He thought it referred to William.”
She smiled at him.
“I think he was right,” she said.
“The verse reads: “In the year that the son of a pee-ling’s son comes to the Land of Snows, in that year shall Maidari appear. He shall be the last abbot of Dorje-la, and the greatest.” Now do you understand? Now do you see why it must be this year?”
Christopher was silent. He stared at her, at a long bar of dust flecked sunlight that straddled her face, at a wisp of hair that fell, black as an omen, across her cheek. Behind her, the thin monk stood among the shadows, his eyes fixed on Christopher. He felt like a plaything, passed from hand to hand, chased hither and thither by forces beyond his reckoning.
“When is this Festival?” he asked.
“You said it would be soon.
Are we in time?”
Her eyes held his. At the end of the passage, a crow cawed and flapped its wings.
“Tomorrow,” she said.
“It begins at dawn tomorrow.”
It was dark when they reached Ta Khure. An uneasy darkness, edged with fear. In the streets, corpses lay exposed for the dogs, pillows beneath their heads, prayer-books in their cold hands, waiting. It was the custom.
On Tsering’s advice, they had walked from the consulate rather than draw attention to themselves by riding. Winterpole had not wanted to come at first, but Christopher had insisted he accompany them. He did not trust him on his own.
Gradually, the walls of the sacred city had enfolded them as they made their way through the tangled maze of silent alleyways towards the centre. The temples were full of chanting and the flickering of lamps. Everywhere, monks were preparing themselves for tomorrow’s festival. In the larger streets, pilgrims still walked or hobbled or crawled towards the Khutukhtu’s winter palace.
It was not clear to them how Tsering found his way through the dark lanes of the Khure without a light; but he seemed not to falter, as though possessed of eyes akin to those of an owl or a cat.
The festival moon had not yet risen, and the faint light of the stars made little impression in the cramped and narrow alleys down which they wound their slow and uncertain way.
Tsering and Christopher went in front, with Chindamani and Winterpole watching their rear. On their way to Ta Khure, Christopher explained to the monk the circumstances of his brother’s death. He kept from him the fact that Tsewong had been a Christian convert, that he had died wearing a silver crucifix that had once belonged to Christopher’s father. Not to the abbot of Dorjela, thought Christopher, but to my father, who really died all those years ago in the snows beyond the Nathu-la.
“I don’t know why he killed himself,” Christopher admitted.
“He left no message, no clues. Perhaps the missionary with whom he stayed would know. But he denied all knowledge of your brother.”
“Yes,” said Tsering.
“That is what I expected: that he would deny him in the end.”
“I don’t understand. You speak as if you knew him. As if you knew Carpenter.”
Tsering nodded, a dim shape in the gathering dusk.
“I knew him, yes. He once came to Dorje-la. Didn’t you know that?
About six years ago, a year or so before I left Tibet to study here.
Perhaps he came again the Lady Chindamani would know.”
“I’ve never spoken about him to her. Why did he come to Dorjela?”
The monk paused, slackening his pace.
“He had heard I do not know where that the abbot of Dorjela was a pee-ling, that he had once been a Christian. Perhaps he thought the abbot was still a Christian, that he was some sort of missionary like himself- I don’t know. Anyway, he came to us at the height of summer, asking to be granted admission to the gompa.
He stayed for several weeks: his journey had been bitter, and he was tired and feverish. When he had rested and taken herbs, he was allowed to visit the Dorje Lama. They were together for a day.
Then Kah-pin-the returned and said he wished to leave. The abbot appointed my brother as a guide, to lead him back through the passes to Sikkim.”
He walked more slowly now, watching the darkness form gently about his words, calm nightfall envelop his memories of his brother.
“When he returned,” he resumed, “Tsewong and I were together a long time, talking. He said that the pee-ling teacher had converted him to his faith, that he had become a Christian.” He paused and looked at Christopher.