Tulku

13

AT ONCE THE routine of days changed.

Theodore had intended to visit Major Price-Evans immediately after the ceremony, to find out what it all meant and how it affected him and his friends; but he was too shaken to resist Lung’s demand that they should return to the guest-house, so now he was kneeling on the floor and pumping the primus stove, while Lung sat withdrawn and brooding on his cot. In theory Theodore was getting ready to welcome Mrs Jones after her adventure, but really he was trying to restore his own centre of balance by contact with things he knew, by handling a western gadget and making tea the way Mrs Jones liked it. He had just got the flame to roar and steady when Tomdzay came striding through the door with no warning at all. He beckoned to Theodore.

‘Come,’ he said. ‘You are needed.’

‘Where is Mrs Jones?’ said Lung and Theodore together.

‘The Mother of the Tulku is in the house of the Lama Amchi Geshe Rimpoche. It is there that we go.’

As Lung took a pace towards the door Tomdzay barred his way.

‘Only the Guide is needed,’ he said. ‘The much-honoured Father of the Tulku may stay here.’

He made a slight movement, not enough to let Lung pass but enough to make sure he could see the three soldier-monks waiting beyond the door. Lung took a half-pace towards them, hesitated and turned.

‘Not permit Missy think she strongest,’ he muttered in English.

Theodore smiled bleakly at him and followed Tomdzay out of the door.

This time they entered through the main gate of the monastery. The crowd was still streaming out, but whatever the crush they jostled aside to let Tomdzay pass; it took Theodore a little while to realize that their eyes were turned not on Tomdzay but on him. He was used to being stared at on his wanderings through the monastery, by eyes inquisitive but wary, but these stares were different, open and respectful – they might have stared at one of their idols in much the same way.

When the little procession he was now part of reached the main courtyard there were still plenty of people about, who behaved as though they had been waiting to see him, not pushing close as they had round Mrs Jones but forming a wide clear path between two packed lines of watchers. Tomdzay led the way down the centre of this space to the flights of stairs that zigzagged up the rock towards the two houses that stood there. One of these, Major Price-Evans had said, belonged to the Lama Amchi and the other was kept in permanent readiness for the return of the Lama Tojing or the arrival of his successor.

The escorting monks stopped at the bottom of the stair, but Tomdzay led the way up to the door of the left-hand house where he paused and whispered a brief prayer or incantation, then held the door open for Theodore.

‘Enter,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Be reverent.’

Automatically Theodore returned his solemn bow and crossed the threshold. As the door closed behind him his immediate impression was of yet another temple, not of stone but of wood, all polished to gleam in the near dark, and cluttered with jewelled idols and ornaments, and hung with garish cloths. Butter lamps glowed in front of some of the idols and the still air prickled with incense, but not so heavily as it did in the temple – the smell was thinner, or perhaps finer.

‘Coo-ee, Theo,’ called Mrs Jones’s voice. ‘We’re up here. Come and look. I never seen such a view.’

Theodore followed the sound up a flight of stairs, polished till they were as slippery as an ice-fall. At the top was a little vestibule, beyond which he found a large airy room which ran all across the front of the house with its windows looking out over the monastery roofs to the tremendous range beyond. This room too glistened with polish and twinkled with knick-knacks and idols.

In the many hours he was to spend there with Mrs Jones and the Lama Amchi, Theodore never became used to the nudging presences of the idols, whispering in his mind, You have felt us. You have known our power. We are real. He could look at a particular statue and perceive that it was mere stone, lacquered and gilded; its staring eyes had no mind behind them, its expression was whatever the sculptor had thought proper to carve there; that was all it consisted of. But out of his direct line of vision the idols were never quite empty; behind each half-seen mask a power brooded. Most of the Lama Amchi’s statues were of the Buddha, and so were the innumerable pictures in the hangings and paintings. All these seemed to express a strange multiple being; it was as though Theodore was being watched by an eye, many-faceted like an insect’s, but turned not outward but inward, inspecting through all those facets the object – Theodore – at its centre. Furthermore the silver or brass bowls and the butter lamps and the bright-patterned rugs and cushions and the hundreds of other garish or glittering objects, each with its own meaning and use and all bright with jewels and gold, served to increase the feeling of light refracted and splintered so that the eye could watch not only from all possible angles but in all possible hues. Sometimes Theodore could close a facet off, as if drawing a blind across a window. He might learn, for instance, the symbolism of an object or the myth behind a particular pose of the Buddha, and by refusing to accept them he could rob a presence of some of its power; but it would still be there, and much as he longed to he was never able to deny the whole vast system of beliefs and myths and symbols. Even if he had had the knowledge and intelligence to understand it all – and there was so much of it, so sharp and intricate in detail, so vague and ungraspable in outline – Theodore knew he would not have been able to argue it out of existence. You needed more than understanding for that. You needed a sort of spiritual energy, a soul-force, such as Father had possessed. The Lama Amchi possessed it too, and so did Mrs Jones, but not Theodore.

He found Mrs Jones sitting on a wide, low stool with her back to the window; she was still wearing her hat and veil and had managed to rearrange her hair and dress after the wild ride through the courtyard below. The Lama Amchi sat facing her on a great throne-like chair of black wood with sides as tall as its back and a rainbow-coloured canopy above. The back of the chair was deeply carved with the sacred wheel, whose spokes and rim framed the Lama’s head like a dark halo. He sat cross-legged on the plain wood seat, a pose which made him look like a toy neatly folded into its box. Later Theodore learnt that whenever he was not occupied with some other duty he spent all his time in this position on this chair, and slept in it too.

The Lama greeted Theodore with a face that seemed to smile, though his lips did not move, and pointed to a smaller stool beside Mrs Jones’s. Unlike the great wheel-throne, this was comfortably padded, a point which Theodore hardly noticed at the time but became increasingly grateful for as the weeks went by. They sat in silence for some time, the Lama gazing into distance beyond the mountain-tops, and Mrs Jones staring at him as though she were about to paint his portrait. Theodore glanced uneasily from one to the other wishing that Mrs Jones would say something in English so that he could begin to tell her of his determination not to be tricked any further into the maze of heathen fantasies.

‘How weak is the intellect of man,’ said the Lama suddenly. ‘When I met you in the pass I was given sure signs that my search had ended, but I was blind to a full half of them, or saw them in a mistaken light. Because I thought at first that you, child, might be the Tulku, I believed that your companion, the Chinese, must be the guide of whom the oracle spoke. And though I soon discovered that the Tulku is yet to be born, I was too blinded by my first perceptions to see that it is you who are the guide. It is you who are to guide the Mother of the Tulku to me.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Theodore. ‘Mrs Jones is here.’

‘Not all journeys are across space. Two consciousnesses may be far apart in the dimensions of earth and yet side by side in the dimensions of the spirit; two bodies may share one room, while their consciousnesses are separated as if by many mountain ranges. Now say this to the Mother of the Tulku. I will speak slowly and pause often, so that you may make my meaning sure. The oracle confirms that she bears a child, and that he will be the Tulku of the Siddha Asara, who in his last incarnation wore the body of Tojing Rimpoche. That much is certain, though the Ones who speak through the oracle use shadowy language. The oracle also repeated the signs that were to assure us that we had found the Tulku, and when it confronted the Mother of the Tulku it recognized the presence of Asara and shrank before him. It warned, too, in dark language, of dangers and betrayals to come – these will become clear as the wheel turns. And it gave us a further sign, which is not for us but for the Mother of the Tulku, that she may know whose body she bears. We interpret certain words as meaning that the Siddha Asara willed the death of the body of Tojing Rimpoche at a propitious moment, only a moon and a half gone by, and chose for his new incarnation a child that was newly conceived at the foot of a pillar beneath a foreign shrine. Was it so?’

Theodore stared at the Lama, felt his face go red and half-opened his mouth to say that he couldn’t ask Mrs Jones a question like that.

‘You are the guide,’ said the Lama gently. ‘You are, as it were, the bridge between us. We travel to and fro upon you, but our coming and going does not change you by a pebble or a grass-blade.’

Theodore turned his protest into a cough, and translated. Mrs Jones gave one of her throaty little chuckles.

‘Wonder how he knew that,’ she said. ‘I s’pose it might be right. I mean, that’s the first place it could of happened, ain’t it?’

‘Where?’

‘Oh, don’t you remember, that great lump of rock with the cave in it, where I told you my life history. That was a pillar, sort of, and it had a shrine at the top, too.’

Theodore explained in Mandarin. The Lama nodded.

‘You see?’ he said. ‘The oracle gives clear assurance to the Mother of the Tulku, so that she may know that all we ask of her is rightly asked.’

‘Tell him to come off it,’ said Mrs Jones. ‘No, I s’pose you better not. Just like my Auntie Rosa said, ain’t it? They tell you one true thing and expect you to swallow the rest because of it. Still, I wonder how he knew.’

‘I talked to the oracle-priest about the way we came,’ said Theodore. ‘I think I said we camped by that pillar. Of course I didn’t say anything about . . . about . . .’

‘Lucky guess, then,’ said Mrs Jones. ‘Perhaps old Lung’s been boasting a bit too. You’ll have to be careful what you say to His Reverence, Theo. We got to make him think we’re proper impressed.’

There was a long pause, during which Theodore became aware of something else in the room beside the three of them and the vague presence of the idols – a very faint, half-regular wheezing, whose source he couldn’t identify. He was too occupied with the struggle to translate to pay much attention to it, but decided there was probably a large dog asleep behind one of the several screens, snorting and wheezing through its dreams.

‘Thus it is yet more certain,’ said the Lama suddenly. ‘Now comes our task to prepare, that the Tulku may be born in an appropriate manner. It has happened sometimes that the Dalai Lama himself has been born in the hut of a serf, just as an offering at a shrine may if necessary be made from a common butter-bowl. But where we have choice we use more seemly implements, and thus it seems proper to us that the Mother of the Tulku should have knowledge of our faith, that she may compose herself into harmony for the birth of the Tulku.’

‘Oh Lor’,’ said Mrs Jones.

There was no need to translate the muttered moan. The Lama smiled at her with innocent sweet charm.

‘I must explain that this is the reversal of normal procedure,’ he said. ‘Normally a person who wishes to learn how to set his footsteps in the Way of Enlightenment will seek out a teacher, whom we call a guru, and ask him to accept the applicant as a student, whom we call a chela. The guru will consider the applicant’s worthiness, and set him harsh tasks to test his faith, and only then perhaps accept him. Now it is I, the guru, who am asking you, the chela, to accept me as your instructor. All instruction will be useless unless you are willing. If you refuse you will be in no way punished, but will be honoured throughout Dong Pe as the Mother of the Tulku, and when the child is weaned and able to leave you you will be rewarded with gold.’

‘Gold!’ said Mrs Jones. ‘What does he think I am?’

‘But hear me,’ said the Lama, speaking ever more slowly. ‘All the gold we can give you – and Dong Pe is famous for its wealth – is nothing beside the riches of instruction. You have a great soul. It has passed, perhaps, through the bodies of many princes who have fought great wars and given laws to empires. But for all their power and fame they were lashed fast to this world of things, which is not the soul’s true home, but is all illusion and folly. You cannot remember these past existences, but I perceive that as I speak of them your soul acknowledges their truth. And now the wheel of your being has turned, as it can do only once in many thousand years, turned to the point where you can begin to free yourself from illusion and seek the soul’s true home. The child is a Christian, but you have no beliefs.’

‘I got married in church, of course,’ said Mrs Jones, ‘but I can’t say as I ever took religion very serious.’

‘Then you are, so to speak, a blank slate, waiting for the writer’s hand. What will he write there? Let it be my hand, and I shall write truths which will set you on the path to enlightenment, to the bliss which is beyond being. Or keep the slate blank and let the wheel turn on, to carry you through countless more existences until perhaps it reaches a point where such a chance comes again.’

‘Stone me,’ said Mrs Jones. ‘I’ve had some funny offers in my time . . .’

Her last two comments had been flippant, but the tone behind them had been at odds with the words. Theodore, used to her moods now, had sensed the change while the Lama had been speaking. At first she had listened to the talk about guru and chela with wary politeness, nodding at the end of each phrase to show she had understood; but when the Lama had begun to speak of her supposed past existences – an idea which Theodore thought too absurd to take seriously – her pose had stiffened and her eyes had flashed behind her veil, and each nod had been more decisive than the last, as if she not only understood the nonsense but accepted it. In the silence that followed her muttered comment Theodore heard once more the thin wheezing sound he had noticed earlier.

‘Tell him it’s a deal,’ said Mrs Jones suddenly. ‘Tell him I’ve always known, since I was a tiny kid, I wasn’t here only this time. I couldn’t of become me, bang, like that, out of nowhere. There’d got to be something before.’

‘It is a mighty spirit,’ said the Lama. ‘Blind and bound it has yet groped towards the way. Tomorrow we shall hold the ceremony of initiation in which I accept you as my chela and you accept me as your guru. Till then I must prepare myself with meditation.’

He rang a small bell. Mrs Jones rose, smoothing her skirt, and curtseyed. Theodore rose too and contrived a bow which was little more than a stiff nod, but the Lama had his eyes closed. A strange monk came in and stood by the door. Still with his eyes shut the Lama intoned a Tibetan blessing. They left.

The courtyard at the bottom of the stairs was still crowded, but an escort of half-a-dozen monks formed up and led them through. This time the people pressed closer and a strange cooing hum rose and fell. Mrs Jones strolled through the mass as though it was all perfectly normal.

‘Notice your pal the Major snuffling away behind that screen?’ she said.

‘Oh! Yes, I heard . . . I thought it was some sort of dog . . . Why . . .’

‘Check on what we was saying in English, of course. See if we was trying to string old Amchi on.’

‘Do we have to do what he wants?’ said Theodore. ‘Look, the Lama said you could tell him no and it would be all right.’

His misery must have sounded in his voice, because Mrs Jones stopped in her tracks and stared at him.

‘You poor mite,’ she whispered. ‘I never thought . . . You see, I wasn’t just having him on. I want to hear a bit more, ’cause nothing anyone’s said has ever made sense to me quite like that – and I never even bothered my head about you having to sit through it all . . . I know, tell you what – the Major, poor old beggar, no reason why he shouldn’t do it, if he’s to be there anyway. Better than sitting snuffling behind that screen. We’ll get him to do the interpreting and that will let you off. How about that?’

She spoke softly, almost pleadingly, as though she longed for him to be comforted. There was nothing Theodore could do but smile and nod, but in his heart he knew it wouldn’t work. This was something he was doomed to endure.

* * *

There was a visitor in the guest-house, a strange monk whom Lung was entertaining to formal Chinese tea. Theodore would have expected Mrs Jones to insist on a proper brew-up after the long morning, but she settled on to her knees and accepted a beaker of the straw-coloured water with a camellia petal floating on it. The monk, a square-faced, sturdy man called Sumpa, made conversation in good Mandarin, asked Mrs Jones about her plant-hunting and suggested areas of the valley that were worth exploring. He stayed a good twenty minutes but mentioned neither the Lama Amchi nor the morning’s ceremony with the oracle.

Next morning Major Price-Evans was waiting as usual on the steps between the prayer-wheels, smiling his welcome as Theodore walked across the courtyard.

‘Well, me boy, that was a marvellous thing to see, wasn’t it?’ he said. ‘All six powers coming into the oracle, one after the other, hey? I’ve only seen that happen once before – four or five’s a very good score in the normal way.’

He spoke with the enthusiasm of a sports fan who has witnessed some remarkable performance and wants to re-live the moment with a fellow-spectator.

‘Now, come in, come in,’ he went on, taking Theodore by the arm and almost thrusting him into his tiny cell. ‘Poor old oracle’s going to be a trifle sore this morning, I can tell you – sometimes takes him a week before he can get along without a stick after a show like that. All six powers, hey?’

The cell had changed. There were new hangings on two of the walls, and a stool for Theodore to sit on, covered with a brilliant little rug. A dish of orange cakes stood beside the tea-urn, and the drinking mugs were different, with ornate handles.

‘Like that mantra?’ said the Major, waving a hand towards the more garish of the new hangings, which showed an elaborate pattern constructed from a few Tibetan letters. ‘Wish I had my eyes to see it properly – stunning bit of work, hey?’

‘It’s very striking,’ said Theodore. ‘These aren’t the usual mugs.’

‘No, no, me boy. Somebody guessed you might be looking in and sent a few things along. Cakes, too. Nice of them, don’t you think?’

It was difficult to show enough enthusiasm for the changes, but Theodore did his best for the old man’s sake and not for any mysterious ‘them’. It was a comfort that the Major’s manner hadn’t altered – if the Buddha himself had materialized in the little room Theodore felt he would have been greeted with the same smile of delight, the same barking questions and cries of ‘hey?’ The cakes were sweet, pungent and slightly warm. Theodore nibbled one and tried to plan a tactful approach, but in the end he blurted his question out.

‘Major Price-Evans, couldn’t you do it?’

‘Do what, me boy?’

‘The interpreting. The Lama Amchi wants to explain about enlightenment to Mrs Jones, and because the oracle says I’m the guide, or something, I’ve got to sit there and turn it all into English for her, and . . . and . . .’

He wanted to say that he loathed not just what he was being asked to do but the whole pagan system of gods and Buddhas. He guessed that the Major would accept such an outburst perfectly calmly, in the way he accepted everything else, but Theodore couldn’t bring himself to say it.

‘Don’t fancy it, hey?’ said the Major kindly. ‘Can’t say I blame you. Not the sort of offer I’d have jumped at meself when I was your age. I would now, though. I would now.’

‘Well, why don’t you? You could do it much better than I can, because you understand what the Lama Amchi’s talking about.’

‘Me understand the Lama Amchi! My dear boy, you don’t know what you’re saying! When I first came here I had a notion he might take me on as a chela, but he said it was no go. Disappointment at the time, of course, but now I can see he was right. I’ll have to plug on through a lot more existences before I’m up to that level.’

Ruefully the Major shook his head.

‘But . . .’ began Theodore.

‘Don’t talk about it any more, there’s a good chap. Out of the question. You are the Guide, you know.’

‘No I’m not! I’m a Christian, and I always will be. I’m not going to help with any of these heathen ceremonies! I don’t believe in any of it!’

‘Don’t you?’ said the Major, not at all put out, but leaning forward and trying to peer at Theodore with his bulging, nearly sightless eyes. ‘Used to think a lot of it was nonsense meself, you know, even after I settled in here. But bit by bit I’ve begun to see how it all fits in. You wait and see what the Lama Amchi’s got to say.’

‘Isn’t there anyone else in the monastery who speaks English?’ cried Theodore.

‘Not so far as I know. Quite a few speak Pali, of course, and Sanskrit. Lot of Chinese. Mongolian dialects. Couple of fellers came up from Burma and stayed on – they must speak something . . . But in any case, me boy, it’s no go. You are the Guide, you see. A child of a foreign faith, bearing symbols of the lower creations – that’s what the oracle said. I heard him with my own ears, and it’s as plain as the nose on my face that the powers mean you.’

‘You didn’t hear him,’ said Theodore. ‘You heard that other monk reading out what he said the oracle had said.’

‘But that is the way it is always done. The powers only speak in the barest whisper.’

‘So you never know if the man with the slate is telling the truth.’

‘My dear boy,’ said the Major, still not seeming at all shocked, ‘why shouldn’t he? They’re not fools, these monks. The Master of Protocol – that’s the fellow you saw with the slate – he’s a long way on to enlightenment, almost free from the illusions of the world. Think what he’d do to all that if he started perverting the word of the oracle!’

‘He might think he was doing the right thing. I mean, he wants to keep Dong Pe out of the hands of the Chinese, doesn’t he, and that means getting in first before the Chinese produce somebody they say is their own Tulku. And anyway, people do do things like that – Christians too, famous ministers, and bishops, and cardinals, although they know they’d go to hell for it.’

‘I dare say. I dare say. There’s nowt so queer as folk, as my poor batman used to say – good example meself, some people might think. You’ll just have to take my word for it that the Master of Protocol was telling the truth, and we won’t talk any more about it. It won’t get us anywhere and it will only make you miserable.’

‘But . . .’

‘I think we’ll drop the subject. No? Well, I suppose I’ll have to show you I mean it. I hadn’t meant to tell you this, but I see I must. Now listen. Even if the Lama Amchi himself were to come and beg me to do what you want, I’d turn him down. He might threaten to throw me out of Dong Pe, but I’d still turn him down.’

‘But why . . .’

‘That woman . . . I’ve been fretting about this, because I didn’t care to tell you, but as a matter of fact I’ll be glad to get it off my chest. Lama Amchi asked me to go along yesterday morning – never set foot in his house before – sit behind a screen, listen to what you and Mrs Jones were saying. I’ve told him I won’t do it again. Remarkable character, Mrs Jones, don’t you consider? Here I am, past seventy and good as blind, and yet . . . I’ve known quite a few women in my day – nothing like an Indian Army station for hot little intrigues – and yet there was I, tucked in behind that screen, listening to that voice, and she brought it all back – the glances across the dinner table, the squeeze of a foot as you helped some other fellow’s wife into the saddle, dusk beneath the deodars . . . Can’t have that, you know, just when I’m starting to free meself from the wheel, all those memories coming whistling me back, hey? Not much help to you, me boy. I’m telling you partly to get it off me chest, and partly to show you that there’s no question at all I’m going to do what you ask. I’m sorry, but there it is.’

‘I see,’ said Theodore dully. ‘Shall we go and clean the temple?’

‘Been round already. All done. Can’t have the Guide doing that sort of work, you know. What would the other monks think of me?’

‘I like cleaning the temple. It’s something to do.’

‘My dear boy . . .’

‘I’m going to start over where I left off, and nobody’s going to stop me.’

The Major’s protests were short and feeble. He liked company while he was doing his chores and was glad to be overruled. Encouraged by this success Theodore determined to refuse to be present at Mrs Jones’s ceremony of initiation as the Lama Amchi’s chela, whatever anyone said or threatened.

He was brushing out the intricate crown of a female god called Tara when the big doors opened and the oracle-priest came in to perform his morning rituals. His face had a huge bruise all down one side, and he limped along, supported on one side by a young monk and on the other by a crutch.

‘How do you feel?’ asked Theodore, in answer to his croaked greeting.

‘Like a thrashed yak,’ said the oracle-priest, with a rueful peasant grin.