The Cloud Maker

Chapter 58

Rega staggered along the broken pathway, clutching on to Drang’s arm. The toes of his sandals caught on the loose stones, tripping him forward, while his spare arm reached out into thin air, fingers splayed wide.

Everything was so unfamiliar. There was no corridor to guide him, no indentations in the stone wall to show him the way. His whole world had been based on familiarity and memory, and now all that had gone.

The wind streamed across his face and Rega inhaled the cold air deep into his lungs. It smelled bitter and fresh, and he didn’t recognise a single part of it. In the monastery he had been able to tell every storeroom from the smell of its countless jars and vials. He could navigate the twists of the library just from the aroma of the dry parchments. Yet here, in the open vastness of the mountains, all that knowledge suddenly counted for nothing.

The wind blew harder, tugging at his cowl and billowing out his robes.

The moment he was banished from Geltang, the gates bolted shut behind him, Rega had felt a terrible sense of helplessness overcome him.

‘We must reach the shelter of the lower valleys,’ he said, trying to keep the fear from his voice.

He could feel Drang tugging at his sleeve. They were moving tortuously slowly down the path and he guessed his aide’s patience was fast running out. In the mountains, an old blind man could only slow him down.

‘You have always been a loyal aide,’ Rega said, briefly resting his other hand on Drang’s forearm. ‘And you shall be rewarded for such service, I give you my word.’

Drang only grunted, his good eye staring down the slope in front of him. Gauze bandages were wrapped tight across his face, and where the skin was visible it shone with a greasy extract used in the treatment of burns. Under the bandages, weeping patches of raw skin clung to the gauze.

‘Most loyal,’ Rega repeated, fear thick in his voice.

Drang grunted again, pressing him forward. Across the far line of mountain peaks he could see clouds rolling over the sky, blotting out the sun. The wind had already changed direction, bringing an icy cold from the higher slopes. A storm was brewing.

Rega stumbled on a rock lying in the centre of the pathway, his hands digging into Drang’s arm for support. He pulled himself upright, his breathing laboured, and quickly tried to gather himself to continue. Drang simply watched, his expression unchanged, as Rega staggered forward once more.

For another hour they continued before Drang pulled him to a halt.

‘The ground is more dangerous ahead, Father,’ he said. ‘The path has run out. I need to go ahead and check the way down.’

Rega nodded and very slowly uncurled his hands from Drang’s arm. He stood on his own, shifting his weight and reaching out his arms to balance himself. He heard Drang leave a bag at his feet, then the scuffing of his boots across the uneven ground just ahead and some loose pebbles tumbling away down the slope. After that, there was only the noise of the mounting wind.

For over two hours Rega stood where he was, in the vain hope of Drang returning. Even when he understood that his aide was never coming back, he remained in the same place for want of anywhere else to go. The wind whipped around him, sending ripples across the folds of his robes, but he did not reach down into the bag at his feet and put on one of the heavy jackets they’d been given.

Turning back in the direction they had come, Rega tilted his head up towards the distant walls of Geltang, his expression shadowed with remorse.

‘I’m so tired,’ he whispered. Then, sitting down on the hard ground, he lowered his head, letting the cold slowly claim him.