The Cloud Maker

Chapter 50

Trumpets sounded, silencing the restless hum of monks.

The entire order of Geltang sat shoulder to shoulder on the padded floor of the Great Temple. Their blue robes blended into a single, shifting form as they looked up expectantly to the central dais which bore the Abbot’s vast marble throne. The service was about to begin.

Towards the rear of the temple two novices held the giant wooden doors ajar, allowing the evening breeze to circulate, but it did little to cool the mass of heaving bodies. Hundreds of monks were seated, line after line, in perfect symmetry. Each held their prayer wheel in their right hand, some staring anxiously towards the stage while others rocked back and forth, already murmuring the evening sutra. Each knew that the entire order of Geltang only came together on the most portentous occasions. Something significant was about to happen and the atmosphere was charged with expectation.

A hush spread across the monks as all eyes turned towards a single figure striding in through the temple doors. His robes were light gold in colour, ornately stitched around the cuffs and interlaced with rich blue patterns woven subtly into the fabric.

The congregation rose to their feet as the figure mounted the dais and bowed before the great statue of the Buddha. Its face was masked by a large curving blue hat trimmed with fur. In its right hand, the figure held the long golden rod of the Dharmachakra — the ultimate symbol of authority in Geltang Monastery.

With its free hand, the figure reached down into the golden urn at the statue’s base, withdrawing a fistful of chalky tsampa flour and flinging it into the air. It hung briefly in the candlelight, then gently drifted to the ground as the figure turned towards the sea of upturned faces.

As one the monks leaned forward. Many had never even seen the Abbot in the flesh before. They had only heard the rumours and seen his likeness drawn in the prayer halls. The Abbot was as much a part of Geltang as its bricks and mortar, an unseen presence, cloistered away from all but the most enlightened amongst them. Now the living legend was finally showing himself.

The hat came off and Rega’s familiar face was revealed to the crowd. Despite the warming light of the candles, his skin was the colour of stone, his dead eyes fixed ahead to the middle distance.

A gasp of astonishment rippled through the crowd of seated monks. Rega drew himself to his full height, his old back unbending and his bony shoulders straightening. He raised the Wheel of Law above his head, its metal glinting.

‘I hold the Dharmachakra,’ he shouted, his voice wavering from the effort. ‘And with its vested powers, I now command the monastery.’

Some of the monks recoiled as if they had been physically assailed by this news. Murmurs of surprise and alarm were clearly audible as the same questions were asked again and again. Where was the Abbot? How could their sacred leader be so summarily replaced?

‘I speak for the Council,’ Rega barked above the noise. ‘The Abbot has stepped down from his duties. I am your leader now.’

Confusion mounted amongst the monks. Most turned, bewildered, to ask questions of their neighbours. Some younger monks stood up in confusion, demanding answers.

Towards the front of the temple, seated by one of the high wooden columns near the dais, was Norbu. He stared in disbelief at the crowd. He had not understood what was happening until he saw Rega hold the Dharmachakra aloft, brandishing it in his hand like a prize. Suddenly, his eyes fogged with tears and he sank to his knees, his face buried in his hands.

He had betrayed the Abbot. He had unbolted the door when he had been told not to, tricked by Rega and his men. His only consolation was that the Westerners had changed their plans and arrived in time to rescue the boy.

Rega was pacing from side to side on the dais, displaying the Dharmachakra to all the monks gathered in the temple. Norbu stared up at him helplessly, eyes still shining with tears.

Rega raised his hands.

‘Silence!’ he shouted, the veins of his neck bulging. ‘Silence, I say!’

Gradually, the murmuring faded away as each monk obeyed and stared up at him.

‘I come before you as your Abbot bearing grave news. Chinese soldiers have discovered the route to Geltang. They approach even as I speak.’

There was stunned silence for a moment as the weight of this news slowly sank in. The impossible had happened; their greatest fears had become reality.

Slowly, a new clamour rang out as the monks began to panic. It reverberated against the closed acoustics of the temple roof, pierced by sudden shrieks of shock and fear. Rega tried to speak, but his voice was drowned out by the turmoil. After several attempts he signalled to three men standing alongside the dais. Raising their silver trumpets, they blew a high-pitched wavering note that finally cut through the noise.

In the brief moment of silence that followed, Rega shouted to make himself heard.

‘The Chinese are coming, my brothers! They seek to destroy our treasure. I know what will happen if they reach our gates. Fires will burn… everything will be lost.’

The noise began to swell once again.

‘But we can defeat them! All is not lost if we only have the courage to show our strength and resist. They are but a few soldiers and we are many. We can overcome them and protect ourselves. As your Abbot now, I order you to fight!’

When he shouted the last word, the crowd erupted. While many of the older monks stood aghast at this call to arms, stunned by the shattering implications of what Rega was saying, around the periphery of the temple novices surged towards the dais, shouting with excitement and determination.

Norbu was shunted forward in the commotion, and dropped to his knees on the floor. He stared up through the sea of legs surrounding him, bewildered by it all. Then suddenly he realised what must be done. He must get back to the real Abbot. He would free him from his quarters and return him to his rightful place.

Norbu set off, fighting his way through the crowd. He felt his awkwardness and weakness melt away in the face of his self-appointed task. He pushed his way through the press of monks, towards the temple doors.

Despite all the confusion, that single movement going against the grain caught the eye of Drang who was standing on the far corner of the dais, his head raised above the crowd. Quickly realising what Norbu intended, he leaped into the throng after him, shouldering monks out of his way as he gave chase.

Norbu managed to work his way round the back of the line of pillars, to where the temple was less densely packed. He had turned right, towards the doors, when he suddenly caught sight of Drang scything his way through the crowd towards him. Norbu froze in terror. He blinked, hypnotised by the brutal energy in Drang’s eyes. The scar running down his shaved head seemed to distort the whole left side of his face, making him look monstrous and larger than life.

Finally, Norbu managed to drag himself out through the temple doors. The air outside was cool, the last of the evening light fading fast. Bounding down the stone steps of the temple, he sprinted across the courtyard and pressed his body flat against the stone wall on the far side, melting back into the shadow cast by the eaves of the building.

Suddenly the doors of the temple were flung back and Drang came crashing down the steps. He paused, head turning from side to side as he tried to see in the gathering darkness. Retreating a couple of paces, he snatched one of the torches by the temple door and raised it above his head. He then walked out into the centre of the courtyard, searched frantically for the boy, the flames from the torch flattening as he turned.

Norbu could see one of the doors to the interior of the monastery just a few feet away. He could feel the air grating in his lungs as his chest heaved up and down, and sweat ran freely into his eyes. Pushing off against the wall, he lunged forward and made it through the door of the monastery. Behind him he heard Drang roar, then the sound of feet running in pursuit.

Norbu raced along the corridor. Wells of light flashed by as he sprinted past doorway after doorway. He came across a wooden ladder leading to a lower level and hammered down it. As he came to the last rung, his feet seemed to overtake him and suddenly he pitched forward, crashing down on the stone floor in a sprawling heap.

With a moan, he dragged himself into a sitting position so that his back was leaning against one of the many wooden doors. As he stared down at the scuffed and bleeding palms of his hands, he could hear the sound of Drang’s footsteps on the level above. He was close. Just above the ladder. Norbu quickly reached up and pulled down the latch, collapsing back inside the darkened room.

Drang came quickly down the steps. He paused at the bottom, craning his neck from right to left. Then he put his shoulder to the door, sending it flying back on its hinges. With his torch held out in front of him, he stepped into the darkness of the room, bolting the door shut behind him.

Shelving was arranged in several well-ordered lines before the door, filled with jars, boxes and crates. Drang moved stealthily down each row in turn, the sinewy muscles of his right arm visible in the torchlight, eyes darting ceaselessly from one object to the next.

Rounding the last line of shelves, he paused.

‘I’ve got you now,’ he whispered.

There was a whooshing sound as his torch suddenly flared into a fountain of flames. Fire rained down over his neck and the bare flesh of his arm, as the shoulder of his robe burst into flame. He dropped to the floor, screaming in surprise and pain as his hands raised instinctively to protect his face. He twisted on the floor, the flames leaping higher with each move he made, eating through the dry fabric of his clothes and into his flesh.

With a horrible gurgling sound, Drang’s hands clawed at his clothing, trying to pull it free from his body, whilst in the far corner of the room, the bolts on the door were quickly drawn back.

Norbu emerged from the storeroom, trembling with shock. His mind was numb, the enormity of what he had done paralysing him. The half-empty vial of candle oil he was holding slipped from his grasp, smashing on the flagstones.

Across the calm of the monastery, the sound of trumpets struck up once again. It was a brief wavering sound, fading almost as soon as it began.

Norbu started running down the corridor again. The Abbot was the only one who could stop Rega now.