The Cloud Maker

Chapter 12

His face was old as only a Tibetan face can be.

Lines cross-hatched their way across its leathery surface, like a paper bag that had been crumpled into a ball and hastily smoothed out. His dark brown eyes were set deep in their sockets, staring out from beneath long, straggling eyebrows. Around his body were wrapped thick red robes, but years of exposure to dirt and sunlight had faded them to almost the same colour as the ground.

The old monk sat on a pile of earth a few hundred yards from the entrance to Menkom village, but rarely turned from his vigil to look back at the thatched houses. Although a few thin wisps of smoke still trailed out from the chimneys into the cobalt sky, the village was almost completely still. It had been ravaged by disease for over a month, ever since the traders had come.

The first to fall ill were the old men, disappearing from their usual place by the side of the road. Then it spread: to young children, women, and finally the men working out in the fields. In just a few weeks, the once lively village had become ghostly and withdrawn.

Most people remained indoors, lying fever-ridden on the wooden floors of their homes, while outside cattle ambled through the streets untended. Small, black pigs poked their noses through piles of rubbish in the stream and chickens nested in the thatch rooftops. No stones were thrown at them, no voice raised to scare them away.

As the old monk watched, something distant on the pathway seemed to move then became stationary again. He got slowly to his feet, leaving his prayer wheel lying at his side, and squinted down on to the bare earth slopes of the lower valleys. Haloed by the late afternoon sun, he could just see a small cloud of dust hovering above a black shape. It was hazy, little more than a smudge merging into the horizon.

Gradually, the shape began to separate into its component parts: first, the outline of a yak’s great arching horns, then came the silhouettes of people following behind. Through the dust came a second yak, then another, until he could see an entire caravan of men and beasts toiling up the valley at a steady pace.

It was them. It had to be.

Finally the first of the yaks drew level with him, the heavy brass bell around its neck clanking with each step. Its huge flanks were dread locked with dust and dried mud, and on the arch of its withers heavy saddlebags were roped tight. As the mighty beast snorted, long strands of saliva oozed from its nose, beading with the dust from the pathway.

From somewhere near the back of the line, a voice called out above the noise. Amidst a ragged cacophony of bells the row of animals came to a juddering halt. With clothes stained grey from travel, a figure slipped off the back of one of the yaks and approached the monk. As she pulled away a filthy cloth from her face, the monk found himself looking at the dark suntanned cheeks and green eyes of a young woman clearly exhausted from her journey.

‘Tashi delek, venerable father,’ she said, bowing her head to reveal long, black hair that was matted with dust. ‘We are looking for the gatekeeper.’

The old monk nodded, an unaccustomed smile creasing his face even further.

‘Tashi delek,’ he replied, in a voice hoarse from disuse. ‘I am he.’

With that he reached forward, clasping her hands in his and bringing them towards his heart. ‘I did not expect to see you until the solstice. But it is wonderful indeed that you have arrived safely. Our guide is ready to escort you when you have gathered your strength. He is a climber from your own country and has been looking forward to meeting you for many weeks now.’

The young woman smiled briefly in thanks before grasping the monk’s hands tighter. ‘Sir, I know you have not yet been informed of this, but there is someone I need to take with me.’

The monk’s expression clouded over and he began shaking his head before she had even finished speaking. ‘I know how precious you are to our order, but that will not be possible. The guide can take only one person at a time. And, as you know, only the chosen may go.’

The woman looked down at the ground for a moment. When she raised her head again, her green eyes were bright with determination.

‘He has been chosen, and must be taken first. It is vital that your guide should leave with him immediately. In the meantime, I will wait in the village until the guide returns to escort me. You must trust me, venerable father, he is more important than I.’

She had barely finished speaking when there was a scuffling sound from behind the herders and a small boy of about nine years old raced up to the woman and slipped his hand trustingly in hers. He had ragged dark hair and bright brown eyes, although the whites were bloodshot from dust and fatigue. He was wearing an oversized sheepskin coat, tied at the middle by a piece of knotted rope. Looking first at the woman, he then turned his gaze on the monk and asked in a voice that was clear and calm: ‘Is this the place?’

The woman smiled down at him, one hand resting on his shoulder.

‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘But we’re not far now.’