“After that, he was never easy in his mind.
It was always a burden to him, this foreign faith, this thing of a dying god and a world redeemed in blood. He had never been happy with the life of a monk, but his new beliefs did not seem to bring him happiness either. He struggled with them, as though the pity of it all devoured him from outside. Once, I think he told the abbot of his dilemma, but he would never tell me what passed between them.”
Christopher felt the silver crucifix against his chest. He guessed how deeply his father must have understood Tsewong’s position.
They walked on into the thickening darkness. Winterpole changed places with Christopher, allowing him to walk behind with Chindamani.
Chindamani kept close to Christopher, her hand in his, seeking security or warmth or something he, in his present nervousness, felt scarcely able to give. Once her lips found his briefly in the darkness as they stopped at a narrow intersection redolent with the scent of some hidden blossom. He did not know whether she had explained the nature of their relationship to Tsering; but before it grew dark he had seen that the monk still observed all the proper tokens of respect for the Ta.ra.-trulku with whom he walked.
For his own part, Christopher was finding it easier to treat Chindamani as an ordinary woman. He thought of her now with less awe than previously. Away from Dorje-la, the goddess in her was stifled somewhat. Or perhaps that is the wrong expression.
The open plains and nervous vistas of Mongolia seemed to have swept away something of the air of naive self-sufficiency that had been nourished in her by the narrow walls and shadowy, painted chambers of the monastery.
They found the enclosure with little difficulty, though Christopher could not see how it differed externally from any of the others.
Urga was in reality little more than a nomad settlement that had grown huge and permanent. Many of its temples were tent-temples that could be dismantled and moved when occasion demanded.
And the majority of dwellings were gers, circular juris of thick felt erected on thin birch lattices.
The wall was not difficult to climb: it had been designed for privacy rather than as a protection against robbers. Even in troubled times like these, theft was uncommon. They slipped over, clinging to the shadows, watching and listening for a sign of life.
Christopher carried a pistol he had found at the consulate. He held it ready, but prayed that he would not have to use it. He wanted to find Samdup and, if he was there, William, and take them out quietly, with the minimum of fuss. Zamyatin could wait. Without Samdup, Christopher suspected, he was nothing.
In front of them, barely visible, were two gers, one small and one larger than average. They loomed out of the darkness, white, dome-shaped structures that seemed somehow confined by the walls around them.
“Which one?” Christopher whispered to Tsering.
“The large one. The smaller ger will be used for storing fuel and provisions. The boy may be in the large ger or the wooden house to the rear, I’ve no way of telling. Let’s try the ger first.”
They started forward, bending low and moving on tip-toe towards the ger. The ground was hard-packed clay, firm and resilient, smothering their footsteps. No sounds came from the tent.
In the distance, dogs were barking madly as they circled the city in search of food: there was no shortage.
Suddenly, Tsering stiffened and halted, crouching lower than before. He motioned to Christopher and Chindamani to get down.
At the south-east corner of the tent, where the door was situated, they could make out the dim figure of a man. He was leaning on something that could have been a rifle, and seemed to be keeping watch.
“Go round the back,” Tsering hissed.
“Wait for me there.”
He moved off into the darkness without a sound.
“You two go,” whispered Winterpole.
“I’ll go with the monk, keep him covered while he carries out a reconnaissance.”
Winterpole vanished after Tsering. Christopher and Chindamani slipped round the curved side of the tent. It was even darker here. They crouched down, listening intently.
No more than five minutes passed before Tsering returned, although it seemed much longer.
“There’s only one guard,” he whispered.
“We can get in through the bottom of the yurt it’s only held down by blocks of wood for the winter.”
He bent down and began to remove pieces of wood from the khayaa, the bottom layer of thick felt that formed the rim of thejurt.
Christopher started to help him.
“Where’s Winterpole?” he asked.
Tsering looked at him.
“Isn’t he here?” he asked.
“No, he went with you, to keep you covered.”
Tsering put the block of wood he had been holding to the ground.
“He didn’t come with me,” he said.
“I thought he stayed with you.”
They looked round, but Winterpole was nowhere to be seen.
“I don’t like it,” Christopher said to Chindamani.
“I knew he wasn’t to be trusted. Where do you think he has gone?”
“He could be anywhere. But I think we should be quick here.”
She bent down and helped them remove the last of the wooden blocks. It was the work of moments to lift a section of the khayaa.
A dim light came from inside the yurt
Christopher went in first, holding his pistol ready. Tsering and Chindamani followed. Neither of them was armed.
The interior of thejMrt was conventional in design, with a central hearth in which a large fire was lit. In front of the fire lay carpets and a triangular arrangement of cushions. Cabinets and chests stood along the walls, and to the right of the door was an elaborate Buddhist altar, stacked with images and other ornaments. Only a few lights provided any illumination.
Christopher crept forward on hands and knees. At first the yurt seemed empty, then he made out the shape of two small figures seated on cushions near the door. His heart gave a leap as he recognized William and, beside him, Samdup. A Mongol guard had been placed to watch over the two children. His back was towards Christopher, and he appeared to have dozed off”. The barrel of a rifle jutted out above his left shoulder.
Christopher continued to creep forward. Suddenly, he froze.
William had caught sight of him. Desperately, Christopher motioned to the boy to keep still. But William could not contain his excitement. He reached a hand out to Samdup and pointed eagerly in Christopher’s direction.
What Christopher feared happened. The guard’s attention was drawn by the boy’s sudden activity. He stood and, turning, caught sight of Christopher and his companions.
The guard shouted and raised his rifle. He fired too hastily, without taking proper aim. The shot missed Christopher by inches, giving him time to move into a crouching position. As the guard aimed for his second shot, Christopher fired. The man staggered, dropped his rifle, and fell back on to the altar, sending its contents crashing in all directions.
The door-flap opened suddenly and the guard who had been keeping watch
at the entrance came running in. Christopher fired before the
newcomer’s eyes had time to adjust to the light inside
“Quickly!” he shouted, running towards the boys.
“We’ve got to get out of here before someone comes.”
But in spite of his sense of urgency, he had to stop to hold William and assure himself that his son was still alive. Chindamani came running up behind him, taking Samdup into her arms and lifting him into the air.