He darted back into the temple and dragged out from the hanging on the back wall the ladder he had used for cleaning the idols; as he took it through the door the swing of the rear end caught a great bronze dish and sent it to the floor, where it landed with a clashing note like a struck gong. The singing in the courtyard was over, and in the silence of expectation the clatter made the people at the temple door turn and stare. A monk among them frowned and started to stride across, but already Theodore was into the little room and using the momentum of his rush to swing the ladder straight up into the trap.
He scuttled up the rungs, thinking that if Lung had taken all the ladders he would have to pull this one up after him, but he came through the trap and saw one ladder lying across the floor and another still in place. He was already on it when a voice called out in Tibetan and the ladder below rattled as the monk tried it for safety. Then he was through into the third room, rushing up the last ladder and out under the open sky, his lungs gasping for the harsh thin air.
A solitary monk was standing at the parapet, his cowl over his head, gazing out across the courtyard. The windmills clacked in the silence, perhaps hiding the sound of Theodore’s arrival. But now, drowning all noises, a slow, rumbling gasp rose from below, like the sound of the avalanches they had heard when crossing the highest pass, but which he knew was the sigh from unnumbered throats as expectation was answered and the patience of waiting ended. The Lama Amchi had appeared.
The monk knelt, lifted the rifle he had been cradling against his robe and settled it into his shoulder, steadying his left wrist on the parapet. Holding his breath Theodore stole towards him. The kneeling figure tensed. Its thumb pushed at the safety catch.
‘Lung! Stop!’ Theodore croaked.
The cowled head turned and Lung’s face, drained grey with tension, stared at him for a moment, almost unrecognizable. It cuddled back to the stock.
Theodore launched himself at Lung’s shoulders, reaching round at the same time to clutch at the trigger hand. As he struck he heard a shot snap through the humming silence, and then he was half off his feet, staggering against the parapet, grasping the gun-barrel now with the strength of panic as he felt himself beginning to tumble back into space. Lung was yelling and wrenching at the gun with both hands, hauling Theodore back on to the roof as his grasp was breaking. Theodore stumbled to his knees. He found Lung’s leg in front of him, wrapped his arms round it and pulled. A shot banged as Lung staggered, steadied, and kicked at him with his other foot. A huge blow thudded into the side of his head, making the world black and full of whining pain. Far off he heard screams and yells, and nearer a voice shouting. He lay, conscious only of pain, and then of the slightly tacky surface of the tarred roof, and then he was fully aware, hearing grunts and thuds near by. Wincing at the mountain brightness he opened his eyes to see Lung and a monk wrestling near the parapet. The robes made them seem like a single, threshing figure, but suddenly the monk had the upper hand and was forcing Lung sideways towards the drop. Lung bucked and wriggled ineffectively. Theodore rose and staggered towards the pair, tugging at the monk’s robe and shouting ‘No! No! No!’ Vaguely he saw that the crowd below had changed colour, with every face now staring up at the fight. Distracted by Theodore’s arrival the monk lost his grip for a moment. Lung twisted sideways and clear, then flung himself flat on the roof and lay there, sobbing.
17
THE MONASTERY HAD a hospital. Theodore lay on his cot there with his eyes closed, relaxed and waiting for whatever might happen next. His headache was not so bad since he had persuaded the hospital monks to stop saying mantras over him and send somebody to fetch the medicine-tin from the baggage-pile. He had taken two of Mrs Jones’s headache-powders, which seemed to have worked, though their sour-sweet taste hung like vomit in the back of his throat. But in any case he now seemed to have the power to push the pain outside himself, and let it ache away in the void without troubling him. Footsteps shuffled by his bed.
‘Are you awake, my friend?’ said the voice of the oracle-priest.
By the weak light of the butter-lamp at his bedside Theodore looked up at the solemn, sturdy features, half-expecting them to contort into the monster of the morning. The prospect didn’t frighten him any more. He waited.
‘They wish you to come to the Council,’ said the oracle-priest.
‘Why?’
‘How should I know? I am not a member of the Council. They were questioning me, because I had been speaking with you at the start of the Festival. But I do not remember what was said. Perhaps a power visited me . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘Then it is vital to know what the power said. They seldom come uninvoked, and when they do, it is for matters of great importance.’
‘It told me to go to my room. That’s all.’
‘You must come. We must know the exact words, so that the Master of Protocol may interpret them.’
‘I don’t know the exact words. When it happened I thought you spoke to me in English, but now I’m not sure.’
‘In any case you must come. Are you well enough to stand, or shall I send for a litter?’
‘I can walk. What’s happened to Lung? Is he all right?’
‘The Chinese? I do not know.’
Theodore sat up carefully. The movement filled his head with a shrill whine, and his shoulders were very sore. He seemed to have a big, wincing bruise on his left thigh. Watched anxiously by the hospital monk who had been looking after him he eased himself free of the blankets and into his boots. The oracle-priest put a strong arm round his shoulders and led him limping out into the night.
The Festival was still going on as if nothing had happened. A group of performers was swirling through the small courtyard below the hospital gallery, carrying orange-flaring torches which made the shadows dark and flicker across their masks – these were of animals, mostly lions and deer. They swept in silence out under the further arch, from beyond which came the endless throb and tinkle of Tibetan music. The oracle-priest led the way towards the gallery above the main courtyard. The air was full of sharp smells, something like scorched hair mixed with bitter spices. From the corridor before the long gallery Theodore could see that something was burning on the courtyard floor, throwing an unsteady, bluish, chemical light through the long vista of arches; the light glinted off pillars and the watchers along the balustrade and cast their shadows waveringly on the wall behind. There seemed to be still a huge crowd watching. Theodore heard, and almost felt, their response of horror and excitement as the animal-dancers burst with demon-screams onto the stage, but he never reached a point from which he could see into the courtyard because the oracle-priest stopped in the darkness of the corridor and tapped at a door on the left. It opened a crack. A password was exchanged, and it opened fully.
Inside was a fair-sized room containing several idols and hung with Buddhist symbols and pictures. A dozen monks were standing around in patient silence. The two who were guarding the door wore their rosaries wound round their arms to show they were soldier-monks, and carried ornate swords which looked like ritual objects but could clearly be used as weapons. Two more of them guarded a larger door in the left-hand wall. Without a word to anyone the oracle-priest led Theodore to this second door. One of them opened it a crack, and waited. A voice was murmuring beyond. Another voice joined in, arguing against the first, then two more. A bell rang sharply, followed by instant silence. The guard swung the door open and the oracle-priest led Theodore through, still with his arm round his shoulders.