The Mandala of Sherlock Holmes

17 The Flying Swords

A strong hand shook me by the shoulder, waking me from a deep sleep.

'Wha… who?'

I tried to blink away my drowsiness and noticed that it was still dark. The glow of a candle in his hand outiined the troubled face of Sherlock Holmes, and told me at a glance that something was amiss.

'Come, Hurree,' he cried, 'the game's afoot. Not a word! Into your clothes and come.'

'Why, Mr Holmes? What is the…' I began to ask, but he had already left the room. I did as I was ordered and was ready in a trice.

Tying the lappets of my old rabbit-skin cap under my chin, I ran out through the living room to the courtyard, where some of the servants were hurriedly saddling our ponies. In a very short time Mr Holmes, Tsering and I were on our steeds and out of the gates, Tsering leading the way through the dark, deserted streets.

For the bally life of me I could not comprehend what was going on. I attempted to ask Mr Holmes, but it was difficult to make enquiries when riding single file in narrow alleyways. I thought it indiscreet to shout. When we came to the outskirts of the city it was possible for the ponies to travel two abreast, and I thought that I would take this opportunity to ask Mr Holmes the reason for this nocturnal excursion. But no sooner had I begun to get my pony beside his, than we came to the Western Gate of the city, and were soon galloping furiously on the dirt road that led to the Jewel Park. No conversation was possible then.

A bright summer moon occasionally lit our way as it scudded through a cloud-patched sky.

A hard twenty-minute ride brought us before the main entrance of the Jewel Park.

Two soldiers, with rifles at the ready, ran out of a sentry box and challenged us. Tsering quickly dismounted and identified himself. He also made some enquiries, though I could not discern his exact words as he spoke softly.

'But it is very late,' one of the soldiers replied. 'He must have retired hours ago.'

'… and we cannot disturb him now,' said the other soldier. Sherlock Holmes dismounted and walked over to them. 'Even as I speak…'he said gravely,'… the life of the Grand Lama is threatened by a terrible danger. It is vital that we see the Lama Yonten.'

'But we have our orders,' one of the guards replied, slightiy shaken by Mr Holmes's portentous declaration. 'We cannot desert our post.'

'A most commendable course of conduct,' replied Holmes rather sardonically, 'but surely one of you can guard the gate while the other goes to fetch the Lama Yonten.'

'Well, I don't know, Sir,' the soldier scratched his head bemusedly.

'If anything happens to the Grand Lama, I shall personally hold the two of you responsible,' said Sherlock Holmes in that stern, masterful way of his, which rather rattled the two simple fellows. 'Get a move on, man,' he urged.

Bewildered and not quite sure of themselves, they reluctantly opened a small door set into the main gate. One of the soldiers went through it and disappeared into the darkness.

We waited. Sherlock Holmes extracted a dark lantern from his saddle-bag and proceeded to light it. He then closed the shield and handed it to me. No gleam of light escaped but the smell of hot metal and oil told me it was ready for instant use.

'Keep it handy. We may have urgent need of it.'

Sherlock Holmes paced restlessly about in a fever of suppressed frustration, occasionally throwing out his hands as if chafing against the inaction. Finally, after about fifteen minutes, the gate opened and the small, cloaked figure of the Chief Secretary appeared, accompanied by our soldier, and a giant warrior monk.

'Mr Holmes, what a surprise…' said the Lama Yonten.

'Reverend Sir,' interrupted Holmes, 'we have no time to lose. I fear an imminent attack on the person of His Holiness.'

The Lama looked up at Sherlock Holmes in a queer sort of way. Not puzzled or bewildered, mind you, though a bit dazed; but on the whole reassured and pleased. 'Then we must do something about it,' he said firmly. 'What are your orders, Mr Holmes?'

'Quick, follow me,' cried Sherlock Holmes, leaping past them and running into the Jewel Park. Mr Holmes was decidedly a swift runner and it was all we could do to keep up with him. We were permitted a brief pause by the inner wall, as the Lama Yonten ordered the gates opened. Then once again we were racing through the dark gardens. I must admit to tripping and stumbling a few times, but recovered swiftly enough to just about keep up behind Mr Holmes. He must have had the eyes of a panther for he sprinted unerringly in the darkness towards the palace building. On arrival, he paused briefly near the door to wait for the rest of us. As soon as I arrived he grabbed the lantern from me and entered the building. Past the reception hall we ran, coming to a long corridor with a number of doors on either side.

'This is His Holiness's bed-chamber,' whispered the Lama Yonten, pointing to the second door on the right. But Holmes did not seem to have heard him, for he quickly strode up the corridor to the fifth door on the left, and there paused to open the metal shield on the lantern and draw a revolver from the pouch of his Ladakhi robe. He then signalled me to push open the door. Slightiy apprehensive, I leaned against it.

The door swung back somewhat awkwardly on its clumsy wrought-iron hinges. A shaft of light from the lantern cut through the darkness of the room to reveal a terrifying red face with long white fangs sticking out of a grimacing mouth. I gave a littie start. Actually, I nearly screamed, but recovered my wits sufficientiy -and in the jolly nick of time – to realise that the fearful apparition was nothing but the idol of a yidam, a wrathful deity of the Lamaist pantheon. We were obviously in some kind of chapel. Mr Holmes did not betray any surprise but kept the lantern shining steadily on the idol. Then he slowly moved the beam of light across the room, revealing more images of fierce tantric deities, peaceful Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, all disconcertingly life-like in the silence and gloom of the chapel. The heavy scent of juniper incense contributed to the mystery of the place.

The clear, effiilgent beam of the lantern rested on the image of a divinity (or demon?) attired in black and holding two short swords, one in each hand. Its head was entirely wrapped in a black scarf, revealing only a pair of dark sinister eyes that glittered like moonstones.

Then they blinked!

'My gosh!' I exclaimed

'Look out! He's armed,' shouted Holmes, raising his revolver as the figure sprang forward to attack us.

Just as swiftly another figure – our warrior monk – leapt forward to confront the assailant. Our monk had also unsheathed his weapon – a heavy piece of iron in the shape of a large key, suspended from the end of a leather thong – which he whirled and flicked about him with practised dexterity and deadliness. Uttering savage yells both the protagonists gave battle. For a few minutes there was a confused melee of hurtling limbs and flashing weapons. By the solitary light of the lantern it was difficult to follow clearly the full course of the fray.

Awakened by the pandemonium, more guards and servants came shouting down the corridor, carrying candles and lamps. In the relative glare of the collective illuminations, our masked intruder appeared to become somewhat discomposed.

Then suddenly he initiated a flurry of wicked thrusts with his swords that caused our warrior monk to fall back a pace. That was all the masked intruder needed. He spun around, and running to the side of the room, jumped out of an open window -probably the same one he had entered by.

'After him!' shouted Holmes.

Our warrior monk unhesitatingly jumped through the window, followed by Mr Holmes and, slightly later, by myself. I am not the most agile of persons, I must admit, and I tripped on the sill and tumbled into a bed of rather prickly roses. I sprang up briskly enough, though, and sped after Mr Holmes. It was extremely difficult to see anything clearly in the infernal darkness, but I did manage to get occasional glimpses of Mr Holmes's running form, so that I was just able to follow him in the confusion of trees and bushes. Then the dark shadow of the garden wall loomed ahead and I saw Mr Holmes run into it – and disappear!

On reaching the wall – at the point of Sherlock Holmes' disappearance – I discovered a small but solid wooden door built into the wall. The door was open, so I went through it quickly. The moment I got to the other side, the moon came out from behind a bank of clouds, and I saw that we were outside the palace compound, on an open stretch of land, probably at the back of the Jewel Park. The pale moonlight clearly revealed the warrior monk and Mr Holmes running close at the heels of the black-garbed intruder who was heading for a small stone bridge arching over a little winding stream. Before the bridge was a palanquin borne by some half-a-dozen uniformed figures.

The intruder was now running very fast. He had transferred both his swords to his left hand, while with his right he extracted a white tubular object from the recesses of his clothes and held it forward, as if to hand it over to someone in that company ahead.

'Stop him!' cried Holmes, raising his revolver to fire.

But once again he was anticipated by our valiant monk. The fellow twirled his weapon rapidly over his head and released it in the direction of the fleeing intruder. The missile hummed across the distance and struck the man squarely behind the head with an audible crunch. He dropped in his tracks like wet buffalo dung. His two swords fell on the ground with a clatter, and the white cylinder rolled away from his lifeless hand. It was a rolled up scroll, or something like it.

Sherlock Holmes rushed forward to recover the object. Just then the thick curtains covering the sides of the palanquin parted slightiy, and a sickly white hand emerged. The thin, gnarled hand described some strange gestures, like the passes of a way-side jadoo wallah, and – may I be born as a louse in a Baluchi's beard if I am lying – the scroll rose from the ground, hovered in midair for a brief moment, and then flew over to the palanquin, straight into the waiting hand. The hand, with the scroll, then quickly drew back into the palanquin and the curtains closed. A thin wailing voice came from within the palanquin, issuing some kind of order, for the uniformed men quickly shouldered the closed litter and prepared to leave.

Our warrior monk was clearly a chap with a bounden sense of duty, for he charged unhesitatingly forward to intercept the departing company. The thin hand emerged from between the curtains of the litter again, and made some more of those strange passes. As if at a command the two swords on the ground flew up into the air, flicked and swung around like the needle of a monstrous compass searching for the North pole, and, on pointing in our direction, suddenly froze. A split second later they shot forward like twin arrows.

The first one flew in the direction of the monk. The second sped straight towards Mr Holmes. He raised his right hand to ward it off. At the last moment it seemed to deflect the tiniest bit and, striking his right shoulder plunged into a tree trunk behind. With a cry Mr Holmes dropped his revolver. I ran up to assist, to resuscitate, but then noticed that the first sword had struck our warrior monk in the middle of his chest, impaling him like a lepidopterist's specimen.

For a moment I was transfixed with fear and indecision, but then noticed that the palanquin and its bearers were fast disappearing over the bridge and into the darkness beyond. I quickly picked up Mr Holmes's revolver and fired a few rounds at our departing foes. It was, of course, a futile gesture, made more so by my previously mentioned incompetence in matters concerning the discharge of firearms. But at least the report of the weapon served to draw the attention of Tsering and the others – who had lost their way in the park – and who now came quickly to our aid.

'What has happened…?' Tsering cried, looking around him. 'Mr Holmes, you are hurt.'

'A mere scratch, my dear fellow,' said Holmes clutching his right arm in pain, and not looking as well as he claimed to be. 'But how is he – the monk guard?'

The warrior monk – brave fellow – was dead as a door-nail. The sword had gone right through his heart. But he died partially avenged, for the masked intruder too – we discovered on investigation – was dead. The back of his head had been crushed by the force of the monk's missile. Tsering removed the black scarf from around the dead assassin's head.

'See the small burn-marks on his shaven head, Mr Holmes,' said Tsering, holding a lantern over it. 'He was a Chinese monk.'

'Hmm… yes. I have heard that certain monasteries in China have the reputation of training their members to become skilled assassins rather than holy men.' Sherlock Holmes remarked, rather abstractedly. Then he clutched his arm tighter in sudden pain, and spoke in a low hiss. 'But we lose precious time. The palanquin must be followed.'

Mr Holmes quickly explained to Tsering about the cylindrical object being taken by the mysterious person in the palanquin, and instructed Tsering to take some guards and follow it.

'… it left a few minutes ago so it won't be too difficult to catch up with it. Keep a safe distance. And don't, if you value your life, try to stop or apprehend it. I just want to know where it is going.'

Tsering quickly went off with two soldiers, while some other guards carried away the two bodies. Mr Holmes's wound was now bleeding quite severely and his face was drawn and deathly pale, so I helped him back to the palace.

18 The Missing Mandala

The Lama Yonten quickly summoned a monk physician who bathed Mr Holmes's wound and treated it with some aromatic herbal salve. Servants also brought in hot tea and other refreshments, which were very welcome to us after our trying experiences of the night. As he was being tended, Sherlock Holmes narrated to the Lama the strange occurrences by the bridge. The Lama seemed much troubled by Mr Holmes's tale.

'This is terrible, terrible,' the Lama said, shaking his head from side to side. 'But at least you have, for the present, prevented an unthinkable evil and a national catastrophe.'

'Is His Holiness all right?' Holmes inquired.

'Yes. I have just come from his bed-chamber. He is unharmed. Fortunately the assassin must have made a mistake and entered His Holiness's chapel instead of his bedchamber.'

'Humm… perhaps,' said Sherlock Holmes speculatively. 'Though that could have been his intention all along.'

'What do you mean?' the Lama asked, puzzled.

'Well, when I was chasing the intruder, I noticed that he had something in his hand, which he tried to hand over to whoever it was in that covered litter.'

'I saw it too, Sir,' I ventured. 'It looked like a rolled-up scroll or a roll of parchment.'

'Exactly. Now it would not be unreasonable to assume that the article had been taken from the chapel. And, since our intruder did not strike me as a chance thief, one could possibly conclude that the man had intended to enter the chapel and steal the scroll in the first place.'

'So you do not think that he had any murderous intentions?' the Lama Yonten queried.

'I cannot really say,' answered Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. 'Of course, I must confess that such an intruder, armed with two wicked swords, is someone to whom one cannot confidentiy attribute peaceful intentions. But considering the facts it would seem that his principal task was not murder, but the purloining of some object from the chapel.'

'Well, it will not be difficult to verify,' said the Lama Yonten. 'The Senior Chapel Attendant is at this moment cleaning up the mess there. He will certainly know if anything has been stolen. I will have him summoned.'

He reached over for his small handbell, but Sherlock Holmes raised his hand.

'It would perhaps be more profitable to go there and look for ourselves.'

'But your wound, Mr Holmes?'

'A mere scratch. It does not prevent me from walking.'

'Very well,' the Lama nodded.

Holmes rose from the couch, grimacing slightly from the pain he must have felt. I started to go over to help him but he waved me away.

The chapel, now brightly lit with oil lamps, was still in some disarray, though a few monks were attempting to tidy it up and put everything in order. One of them – a wrinkled, toothless old chap with narrow squint eyes and hollow cheeks sprouting a few grey hairs – was clearly upset.

'Oh dear me… oh… oh…'he wailed, holding up the remains of what had once been an exquisite Ming cloisonne vase. 'How can I get everything ready for the morning service?'

'Do not worry kusho] said the Lama Yonten. 'His Holiness is confident that in your good hands everything will be in order. Now, is there anything missing?'

'Missing?' the greybeard threw up his hands and commenced his lamentations again. 'Oh! Were I to have as many eyes as the Za demon, it would be impossible to tell in this chaos.'

'Has something been removed from there?' asked Sherlock Holmes, pointing to the far corner of the back wall.

'Where did you say?' the old man peered about confusedly. Holmes stepped across the room and indicated the place. 'I think we had a… now what was it? Oh yes, there was a thangka hanging there.'

'About two feet high and a foot and a half wide?' asked Holmes.

'How did you know…?' the Lama Yonten began to ask, amazed, then he laughed. 'Ah, Mr Holmes, you noticed the discoloration on the wall where the scroll was hanging.'

'Yes, clear observation is the basis of any investigation.'

'Which thangka was it?' the Lama Yonten asked the old chapel attendant.

'Let me think. Yes, it was the one of the mandala of the Great Tantra of the Wheel of Time. The very old one.'

'Was it of any significant value?' asked Holmes.

'In terms of material wealth, not really so,' replied the Lama. 'There are others just like it. In fact one could commission an artist to paint one exactly like it for a small sum of money. But this one originally belonged to the first Grand Lama, or so I have been told, and therefore has greater spiritual value. Even then, I really do not see why anyone should risk his life to steal it.'

As we all began to leave the chapel, the Lama Yonten turned to the old attendant and offered him a few words of consolation and encouragement. 'Don't worry. You can take the vases and ritual implements from behind the Assembly Hall to replace the broken ones. Everything will be all right.'

As we once again settled down in the reception room, Sherlock Holmes lit his pipe and spoke to the Lama Yonten. 'Could you enlighten me as to the subject of the painted scroll? My knowledge of the symbolisms of your theology is very limited.'

'Well, Mr Holmes, let me first explain to you what mandalas are in general, before discussing that particular one.'

'Pray, if you would be so kind.'

The Lama took a pinch of snuff from a jade snuff bottle and delicately wiped his nose on a yellow silk handkerchief. After blinking once or twice he proceeded to give a detailed explanation on this unique cosmological and psychological aspect of Lamaist Buddhism. The Lama Yonten's explanation was very recondite, and certainly liable to be misunderstood by someone not familiar with the tenets of Lamaism. I have therefore taken the liberty of providing a simpler (and more scientific) version of his talk.

The mandala is a circular design of many colours and great geometrical complexity. Essentially it is a symbolic map of a world; the world of the human mind and consciousness. The various circles and squares composing it represent the various stages of psychic development on the long journey from ignorance to ultimate enlightenment. The final stage is arrived at in the centre of the circle, in which resides a Buddha or Bodhisattva who represents the final goal of the spiritual quest.

The particular mandala in question was of the Great Tantra of the Wheel of Time (Skt. Sri Kala-chakra). The most complex of such occult systems, this tantra was said to have been brought to Thibet from the mythical realm of 'Shambala of the North' in the eleventh century.

Shambala, in the Lamaist world system, is regarded as a wonderland similar to Thomas Moore's Utopia, the New Atiantis of Francis Bacon, or the City of the Sun of Campanella, where virtue and wisdom had created an ideal community. This fabled land is considered to be the source of all high occult sciences, far in advance of our world in scientific and technological knowledge. The sacred scriptures of Thibet prophesy that when mankind is finally enslaved by the forces of evil, the Lords of Shambala will, in the Water-Sheep Year of the Twenty-fourth cycle (2425), send forth their great army and destroy the evil forces. After that Buddhism will flourish anew and a Perfect Age will begin. The Lama Yonten of course believed implicitly in this charming myth, as did all other Thibetans and Mongols.

At the end of the Lama's story Sherlock Holmes stretched back on his couch and looked pensively at the ceiling. Then leaning forward again he asked, 'Did you not mention yesterday that the Grand Lama would be undertaking a retreat at a certain far-away temple?'

'Why, yes. At the Ice Temple of Shambala. He will be going there in a week's time.'

'Does this temple have any connection to "the Shambala of the North", that you were describing to us just now?'

'Most certainly, Mr Holmes. The temple, which is normally buried underneath the great ice, was the very spot where the messenger from Shambala originally expounded the secret science of the Wheel of Time to the first Grand Lama. Ever since then all Grand Lamas have been required by tradition to undertake a period of retreat there, prior to their enthronement. There, through prayer and meditation, they would establish cosmic communion with the occult forces of Shambala, which would then awaken their latent powers and wisdom, thus enabling them to rule this land wisely and protect it from the dark forces.'

’And the last three Grand Lamas – who died before their majority? They presumably did not get to go to this temple.'

'Alas, no. The schemings of evil councillors and Chinese pressure prevented them from doing so. It is now vital that nothing happens to prevent His Holiness from going to the Ice Temple and meditating there.'

'And after…?'

'Our task will have been accomplished, Mr Holmes – yours and mine. It will then be out of our hands.'

The Lama Yonten peered rather short-sightedly towards the door, which was just behind my low couch.

'Is that you, Tsering?'

'Yes, Honourable Uncle.'

'Come in. Come in and sit down.'

I turned around to see Tsering standing by the door. So, he was the Lama Yonten's nephew. That explained the deference with which the governor of Tholing had treated him. It was prudent of the Lama to assign the care of his two potentially compromising foreign guests to someone close to him, in blood as well as trust. Tsering sat on a low divan next to the Lama and gratefully gulped down a bowl of hot butter tea served to him by a monk servitor.

'Well?' said Holmes, as Tsering put down his tea cup.

'It was no problem following them, Sir.' said Tsering, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 'And we were careful not to let ourselves be seen, as you instructed. We followed them out to the city, where they took the Lingkor road, [34] south of the Iron Hill. They carried on in an easterly direction, sticking all the while to the back streets till they came near the Kashgar caravanserai, which they skirted, and finally they entered the compound of the yamen, the Chinese legation.'

'Are you sure?' asked the Lama Yonten anxiously.

'I am certain. The main gate of the legation walls was open and the Amban himself with servants and guards was waiting. All of them bowed low as the palanquin went through the gates.'

'Then it is him!' the Lama Yonten went white as a sheet. His hands trembled.

'Who?' asked Holmes.

'The mysterious guest that arrived at the Chinese legation, the person within the palanquin who caused swords to fly, the power to whom even the Amban must bow. It is him. The Dark One!'

'The Dark One?' repeated Holmes rather incredulously, arching an eyebrow,

'Yes. He has returned from the outer darkness to destroy our master again as he swore to do eighteen years ago.'

'Reverend Sir,' said Holmes bemusedly, 'so far I have confined the limits of my investigation to affairs of this world. As I had occasion to remark before, the supernatural is definitely outside my sphere of competence.'

'Oh no, Mr Holmes. The Dark One is a living person, I assure you. He acquired the name because he turned away from the light of the Noble Doctrine and perverted sacred knowledge for the fulfilment of his greed and ambition. It is a black and sinister tale, but it is important that you hear it all – from the beginning.

'The College of Occult Sciences in Lhassa is the highest institution of occult knowledge and practice that exists in Thibet. Few but the best of scholars from the great monastic universities are admitted; and that too only after a rigorous and thorough investigation of each candidate. Every twelve years, when the calendar of the twelve beasts makes a full round, the college holds a great examination. In the year of the Water Monkey (1873), the College produced two of the greatest adepts of the occult sciences that the country had beheld for more than a century – ever since the Laughing Yogi of the Grey Vulture Peak covered the barley fields of Tsetang with his hand and saved them from a hailstorm.

'Great honours were bestowed upon them. The Grand Lama himself – the twelfth sacred body – attended their final examinations and afterwards invested upon them (with his own blessed hands) their white cloaks of occult mastery. Their fame spread beyond the frontiers of the Land of the Great Snows, even to the court of the Emperor of China; and they were invited to Pekin to hold services for the well-being of the Emperor and his subjects, and the protection of his hills and streams.

'It was there, Mr Holmes, that certain demonic ministers of the Emperor lured one of them into the ways of evil. With great cunning they filled his mind with every kind of filth and abomination – and even with the unthinkable ambition to take the Grand Lama's throne and rule Thibet. On returning to Lhassa both received suitable appointments at the Grand Lama's court. With the cunning of a serpent, the Dark One managed to conceal his foul intentions from nearly everybody, but inadvertently aroused some slight suspicions in the mind of his colleague, the Gangsar trulku, the former abbot of a small monastery in southern Thibet. This astute lama had noticed some slight but disquieting changes in the Dark One's behaviour in China.

'On the eve of the Great New Year's Festival, when everyone was busy preparing for the coming ceremonies, Gangsar trulku saw the Dark One enter the Grand Lama's chapel – the very one the assassin entered tonight – and strike His Holiness with a sword. The loyal trulku rushed in to save his master, but he was too late. In his brave struggle with the Dark One, he lost his life. Unfortunately for this incarnation of evil, the Grand Master of the College of Occult Sciences appeared upon the scene. Before the Dark One could strike again, the Grand Master projected a surge of mental energy which nearly destroyed him. His mind was partially shattered, and he lost his memory and most of his former powers. He was incarcerated in one of the deepest dungeons in the Potala. The Amban, however, on instructions from the Imperial court in Pekin, managed, through extensive bribery and coercion, to get him secretly released from his prison, and smuggled out of the country to China. Since then, we know not what became of him, for distance weakens telepathic waves. It is possible that he has recovered some of his old powers and put up some kind of mental screen.'

'How can you be sure that it is him?'

'I cannot, Mr Holmes – not absolutely, anyway. But I can feel his presence in my bones. Your description of the way in which the swords flew sounds very much like his handiwork.'

'In what way?'

'The Gangsar trulku was impaled from behind by a flying sword as he grappled with the Dark One.'

Although I had witnessed something of the sort tonight, my scientific training rebelled against accepting such superstitious magic without at least adducing some natural causes for the event. 'Cold steel should not levitate of its own volition, Sir,' I protested. 'There must be some scientific explanation for such unusual aviational phenomena.'

'The power of the human mind is limitless, Babuji,' the Lama Yonten attempted to explain. 'The only barriers that prevent its fulfilment are our own ignorance and sloth. Here in Thibet, through meditation and various yogic practices, adepts have trained the mind to concentrate, harnessing all its limitless potential to slay the demon of the ego, the source of all our miseries and sorrows.'

'… and to make swords fly through the air as well,' said Holmes dryly.

'The power of the mind is pure energy and thus essentially neutral – neither good nor bad. Therefore, before we permit any novice to undertake such occult training, we instil in him, through study and reflection, a true altruistic motive in his quest for such powers. Only rarely has this motivational training ever failed.'

'But it did in the case of the Dark One,' said Holmes.

'Unfortunately, yes.'

Sherlock Holmes drew on his pipe and gazed reflectively into the distance for a minute or two, before turning to us again. 'If we are to suppose that our mysterious friend in the palanquin tonight is the same "Dark One" who murdered the twelfth Grand Lama, then the theft of the painted scroll begins to take on a more sinister significance.' Holmes looked at the Lama Yonten gravely. 'You must be wrong, Reverend Sir. There must be something unusual about that particular scroll.'

'Maybe the painting was stolen in order to somehow disrupt the Grand Lama's proposed retreat at the temple,' said I venturing a new hypothesis. 'Does he, perchance, need the mandala painting for his meditations there?'

'Yes, he does, Babuji.' the Lama Yonten answered. 'But it is not necessary for it to be the same one. Any faithful copy of it will do. The mandala simply serves as a plan for the meditator to guide his psychic energies in the correct channels during his meditations. Why, at the Ice Temple itself there is a large stone mandala – a three dimensional one – of the tantra of the Wheel of Time. That would be more than sufficient for His Holiness's visualisation practices.'

'Then it only stands to reason that there must be something very special about the one that was stolen tonight.' said Sherlock Holmes testily.

'There is, Sir.'

The young lad whom we had observed the previous day playing with the animals in the menagerie now stood small and alone in the corridor. He was wrapped in a thick maroon cloak like the one Lama Yonten had on. The Lama Yonten and Tsering rose hastily to their feet. Mr Holmes and I followed suit.

'Your Holiness, you should be in bed,' said the Lama Yonten anxiously.

'But how can I sleep with so much going on? Anyway I wanted to see the foreigners.' He came over and stared at us with much curiosity, but also friendliness.

'You are from the Noble Land (Arya-varta or India)?' he enquired of me politely in a high boyish voice.

'Yes, Your Holiness. I come from the province of Vangala (Bengal) where the great sage Atisha [35] was born.'

'I hope one day to make a pilgrimage to all the holy places in the Noble Land – when all the present problems are settled.' He then turned to Sherlock Holmes and bowed his head once. 'I wish to thank you, Honourable Sir, for saving my life tonight. The Lama Yonten told me earlier that were it not for your vigilance and courage an assassin might possibly have… harmed me.' He appeared a little troubled at this realisation, but then his boyish nature reasserted itself and he was all curiosity and questions again.

'But you do not look like a foreigner.'

'I am supposed to be in disguise as a Ladakhi,' said Holmes with a smile.

'You had better pretend to be half Kazakh then. That would explain the pale cast of your eyes.'

'Your Holiness is very observant,' said Holmes. 'Maybe that is why you saw something special about that stolen thangka.'

'It has been hanging in the chapel ever since I can remember, and I never took any particular notice of it. But one day a monkey from the garden managed to enter the chapel and, besides breaking a few things, knocked the painting off the wall. After I had chased the animal out, I was picking up the scroll to restore it to its hook when I noticed some writing on the back.'

'Writing?' enquired Holmes, a hint of excitement in his voice. 'What exactly was on it?'

'Well, there were a few lines explaining that the thangka had been commissioned by my first body after his return from the realm of Shambala of the North. That's about all, I think. No. Wait a minute, there were also some strange verses, penned by the First Body himself.'

'Can you remember them?'

'No. I only glanced at them that once. They were very puzzling and I could not understand them. That is all I remember.' The lad must have realised how disappointed we were with his answer, for he looked up at Holmes anxiously. 'Is it very important? I do wish I could remember. I wish I could help.'

'Your Holiness must not worry,' said Holmes kindly. 'You have helped enough by letting us know of the existence of the verses.'

'Yes, and Mr Holmes will confound our enemies with his powers, my Lord.' the Lama Yonten tried to cheer up the crestfallen boy. 'Now you must rest. The Venerable Physician Abbot has expressly instructed that you must have a great deal of rest if you are to fully recover from your illness.' The Lama Yonten looked up at the tall bearded monk who was standing at the doorway. 'Come, the Lord Chamberlain is waiting.'

We all bowed as the young Grand Lama bade us a polite farewell and left the room with his chamberlain. I could not but help reflect on how, in spite of his illness, he was such a bright, intelligent boy, unspoiled by the loftiness of the unique position, gentle and courteous in spite of the treachery and violence surrounding him. It saddened and frightened me to think what he might have to face very soon. Sherlock Holmes too seemed to share my sombre reflections, for he gazed silently ahead, grim-faced and pensive, his heavy drooping eyelids forming deep shadows under his eyes. The ticking of the ormolu clock filled the silent room.

'We must get it back!' cried Sherlock Holmes suddenly, smacking his fist into the palm of his hand.

'What?' I said, surprised.

'You mean the thangka, Mr Holmes?' asked the Lama Yonten.

'Yes. I am convinced that it is the loose thread that will unravel the mystery.'

'But, Sir, everything about this case is so bizarre and complicated.' said I.

'As a rule,' said Holmes 'the more bizarre a thing is the less mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most difficult to remember or identify.'

'But how can the scroll be the solution to this confusing business?'

'It is of the highest importance in the art of detection to be able to recognise, out of a number of facts, which are incidental and which are vital. Otherwise your energy and attention will be dissipated instead of concentrated. Now, if we overlook, for the moment, all the strange occurrences of the night, even the unfortunate death of our monk guard, what we have remaining is the theft of the painted scroll. That is the simple cause on which everything else, however bizarre, devolves.'

'But how can you get it back?'

'Simple. I mean to burgle the Chinese legation,' replied Holmes calmly. I was rather startied by the answer, though awed by the infinite resourcefulness and daring of my companion.

'But you can't do that.' the Lama Yonten wailed.

'I don't see why not. View the matter fairly. They burgled the Grand Lama's chapel, so it seems only fitting and proper that we return the compliment.'

'Ah! A quid pro quo, Mr Holmes.' said I.

'Exactly.'

'There's bound to be an embarrassing diplomatic incident if you are caught,' the Lama said nervously.

'Well, we cannot discount that possibility entirely, can we now? But look at it this way. The only means we have of discovering our enemy's schemes is through that thangka. So either we avoid any incidents and wait for them to strike, or we take a risk and possibly confound their knavish tricks.'

'When you put it that way, I don't see what else we can do,' said the Lama Yonten glumly.

'Excellent!' cried Holmes, rubbing his hands together. 'Now let us work out the actual execution of our enterprise. Your mention of a diplomatic incident has given me a little inspiration. What if news of tonight's happenings were to somehow become known to the public?'

'There would be massive riots in front of the Chinese legation.' cried the Lama, throwing up his hands in horror.

'Exactly. Which would cause all the guards and other people there to rush to the front wall of the legation to defend it.'

'… we could then effect surreptitious entry through the rear.' said I excitedly. 'A most inspired ruse de guerre, Sir.'

"pon my word, Hurree,' said Holmes. 'You're getting to be as good a mind-reader as myself.

But you have made one little error in your assessment. You are not going with me.'

'But Sir,' I protested, 'surely you will require assistance.'

'Two arrows in the quiver are better than one,' said Tsering gravely, 'and three better still'

'No, Tsering.' said Sherlock Holmes firmly. 'Your task will be to ensure that a riot does take place before the legation gate, at the exact time I require it.'

'But the crowd may get out of hand,' the Lama Yonten worriedly fingered his beads.

'Quite so,' said Holmes suavely. 'That is why Tsering will be there. He will see to it that the mob, though suitably noisy and demonstrative, does not actually storm the legation or set fire to it.'

'That would be enough for the Emperor to send an army into Thibet,' muttered the Lama gloomily.

'Have a number of palace guards in mufti,' Holmes continued with his instructions to Tsering, ignoring the Lama Yonten's jeremiads, 'and post them in front of the crowd. Give them firm instructions to keep the mob from getting out of control.'

'Well, I think I could manage that, Sir,' said Tsering confidentiy. 'When do you want the riot to take place?'

'Tomorrow would be as good a day as any. I would need the cover of darkness, so it has to be in the evening. Now let me see…'he turned to the Lama Yonten,'… by the way, did you not mention yesterday that you had a spy in the Chinese legation, posing as a servant?'

'Yes?'

'Would it be possible for you to summon him here tomorrow? I would require some information on the layout of the legation compound, and the exact whereabouts of the Dark One's suite.'

'I could have him here around noon tomorrow. Earlier?… No. I don't think it would be possible.'

'Since daylight lasts till about six o'clock these days, I think it would be fine for the riot to take place after that. I will make my entry when the demonstration is well under way.'

'Right, Mr Holmes.' said Tsering, getting up from the divan. 'I'll move along to the city and spread the word at the chang taverns there. Will you be coming back to the city too?'

'I think it would be prudent if Mr Holmes and his companion remained within the walls of the Jewel Park,' said the Lama, 'now that they have been seen by Ae Dark One. Send someone to fetch their things from the city.'

A little while later Mr Holmes and I were shown into a well-appointed suite of rooms to the east of the main palace. It was three o'clock in the morning when we finally settled down but Mr Holmes did not make any preparations to go to bed. Instead he poured himself a measure of whisky from his silver travel flask, and filled his pipe from his grey leather pouch. He turned to look at me.

'You are not going to bed, Hurree?'

'No, Mr Holmes,' I replied in an injured tone. 'I hope I am not being tedious, but I would like to enquire if you have any cause to find my services unsatisfactory'

'Of course not, Hurree. Au contraire…'

'Then why the deuce an' all, Sir, do you not wish me to accompany you on your venture tomorrow?'

'My dear fellow. It will be extremely dangerous.'

'Dangerous, Mr Holmes?' said I indignantly. 'I have been in mortal peril since I first followed you off that ship: at the Taj Mahal Hotel with that beastly insect; on the train with those beastly Thugs; and on this entire journey with those beastly bandits and what not. What does some more danger matter to me now at this stage of the game?'

'You may have a point there.'

'And I really could be of invaluable assistance, Sir,' said I quickly, exploiting this first breach in Mr Holmes's resolution. 'I have some experiences of unlawful ingress into well-guarded buildings for the purloining of confidential papers.'

'Well, Hurree,' said Sherlock Holmes with a shrug, 'seeing that we've been together so far on this long journey, it would perhaps be amusing-if the worst came to the worst-having to continue it together in the hereafter.'

19 The Dark One

It's nearly six o'clock,' I whispered, consulting my silver turnip watch. 'Why hasn't the bally crowd turned up yet?'

'One really cannot be expected to time a public riot as finely as a dinner appointment,' said Holmes, a trifle sardonically. He was leaning back comfortably on a pile of grain sacks in the corner of the room, smoking his pipe. 'Tsering is a reliable fellow. Give him a littie time. He will come.'

I looked out of the small, rough window. Across the narrow street I could see the shadowy walls of the Imperial Chinese legation looming in the twilight. Mr Holmes and I were in a small store room at the back of an inn by the Kashgar serai, in the southern part of Lhassa, where the camel caravans from Turkestan – the beasts being of the shaggy, two humped species, Camelus bactrianus – ended their journey. Kintup had managed to secure this very convenient accommodation, just a stone's throw from the rear of the Chinese legation. The Tungan innkeeper had been informed that Mr Holmes and I were Ladakhi merchants waiting for a caravan to Yarkand.

Though the room was really not of a habitable standard -in fact it was filthy,verminous, and offensive to the olfactory organ – it was an ideal starting point for our venture.

But this stroke of luck had been offset by the bad news that the Lama Yonten's agent was unable to come and brief us on the layout of the legation grounds. The duties of the servants had increased two-fold with the arrival of the Dark One, and the agent had feared that his absence would be noticed. Still, he had agreed to meet us at the rear outer-wall of the legation as soon as the demonstration started, and lead us in through the trade entrance, which was usually securely barred and bolted.

And so we waited. I sat back, and watched the faint glow from Mr Holmes's pipe across the darkness of the room. As the darkness increased, this solitary light appeared to be like a faint star, alone in the vast emptiness of infinite space.

Suddenly, for no obvious reason, I felt very much alone and very afraid. And then that part of me, the rational, prudent part, that always pleaded for peace, stability and good sense (so far suppressed by the other part of me, the one that invariably got me into dam'-tight places) now rushed to the fore.

What in the name of Herbert Spencer was I, a respectable scientific man doing, embarking on this mad criminal venture -stepping into the veritable 'Jaws of Death' as it were, when I had only just managed to squeak out of them the last time I was here in Thibet? Of course, I sympathised tremendously with the plight of the Grand Lama, but when all's said and done, Imperial China is Imperial China; and one did not go around challenging a sinister and vindictive institution like that with impunity -especially when it was served by frightening blighters who impaled good men on levitating cutlery with mere flicks of the finger. And anyway, how could I, a lowly subordinate in a minor department of the GOI, be expected to help the bally Thibetans when even Sherlock Holmes, the world's greatest detective, the foremost upholder of justice, had just yesterday afternoon pleaded to be relieved of the task. Well he had, hadn't he? Hold on a minute though… then why the deuce an' all did he change his mind about helping to protect the Grand Lama? And how the Dickens had he known that the Grand Lama would be needing help last night -at the very precise moment he needed it too. Ooooh, Shaitan!

For a few minutes I was rather overwhelmed by the ramifications of my questions. But then I realised that I was absolutely incapable of answering any of them. So I proceeded to ask him, ex tacito, of course. He did not reply immediately, but drew long on his pipe, which burned brightly. By its glow I saw a shadowy face that was much troubled.

'You would not call me an irrational man, would you, Hurree?'

'Of course, not, Sir. If I may say so you are the most rational, most scientific man I have ever had the privilege of meeting.'

'Yet reason or science had nothing to do with what I did last night.'

'Please?'

'I just knew. One moment I was smoking my last pipe for the night and thinking about our meeting with the Lama Yonten, and the next moment I knew for certain that a dangerous assassin was going to enter the Grand Lama's Summer Palace.'

'Like a premonition, Sir?'

'There was nothing vague about it. The singular thing was the absolute assurance I felt about this startling revelation. Yet there was no way to explain it in logical terms. It was a most peculiar experience.'

'Subsequent events proved you right, Mr Holmes.'

'Yes, and that makes it all the more disturbing.'

'But it did make you change your mind about helping the Grand Lama?'

'Well, it hurts my pride to leave unresolved bits of business lying around, Hurree. It is a petty feeling no doubt, but it hurts my pride. Hulloa! Hulloa! What's that?'

He got up from the sack of grain and quickly went over to the window. From the distance the rumbling sound of many people shouting was now audible.

'From what I can hear, Tsering seems to have a good-sized mob there. Is the dark lantern shielded?'

'Yes, Mr Holmes.'

'Good. Well, Hurree, before we start, I just want to say that I am very glad of your company tonight. Some situations in life are best faced with a true friend by your side.'

I was most touched by Mr Holmes's expression of affection and trust.

For a moment he gripped my right hand firmly in his. He then turned quickly and walked out of the room. I followed suit.

The main hall-cum-eating room of the inn was empty, and so was the kitchen. Everybody had gone out into the street to see what the commotion – which was getting louder and more threatening – was all about. From the black, grimy kitchen we stepped through a back door and into the alley at the back of the Chinese legation. A strong odour of camel dung and urine wafted through to us from the main serai grounds. At the east end of the alley which joined the Saddle-maker's Street, we could see a large boisterous procession of Thibetans carrying flaming torches and yelling threats and abuse. They poured past the alley to the front of the Chinese legation. Mr Holmes and I pressed ourselves against the back wall, taking advantage of the shadows, till the crowd had moved past. As the last of the Thibetans disappeared, Mr Holmes and I sidled by the wall to the other end of the alley and looked around. There was no sign of our contact. We waited.

By the sound of it the demonstration was hotting up. The crowd was lustily shouting fierce slogans denouncing the outrages perpetrated by the dog of an Amban. They sounded jolly obstreperous though, and what with their flaming torches and all, I hoped that Tsering would be able to keep control of the situation. Suddenly Mr Holmes stiffened. 'Don't make a sound,' he whispered. 'There's someone by the corner there. It could be our man.'

For the life of me I could not see anyone in that gloom, but as I had occasion to observe before, Mr Holmes had the most extraordinary powers of nocturnal vision. I tiptoed behind him as he moved swiftly and silently forward. An anxious whisper stopped us dead in our tracks. 'Here. Come this way,' a dark figure stepped forward out of the shadow of the wall and beckoned urgently to us.

As we got there I noticed a low door built into the legation wall. It was open. By it stood a small chap in dark-blue cotton suit of Chinese design and a black skull cap. He looked nervously around him like a scared rabbit, his prominent buck teeth emphasising the resemblance. 'Are you from the Lama Yonten?' he uttered in a croaking whisper.

'Yes.'

'Come in this way, quickly. I must close the door before someone notices.'

We entered a large courtyard filled with leather-covered chests, like the ones used to transport brick tea from China to Thibet. Probably the Amban supplemented his salary by trading in brick tea, which the Thibetans regarded as a delicacy. By the courtyard were some houses and behind them the main legation building, which was two stpries high. Dark outiines of armed spldiers could be seen moving about on the roof of this building and on the outer wall in the front. Our diminutive guide crouched behind a pile of chests and signalled us to do the same.

'Now listen carefully. I have very littie time. All the Amban's soldiers are at the front to prevent the mob from breaking down the gates. Everyone else has gone to the main legation building as it is the most defensible.'

'Where are the quarters occupied by the Amban's special guest? The one that arrived a few weeks ago.'

'Merciful Kuan-yin,' the man whispered very agitatedly. 'Keep away from him.'

'Where are they?' insisted Sherlock Holmes firmly, holding the man tightly by the shoulders.

'It's that large house… there on the left… the one nearest the wall. But I have to go now, the other servants might notice my absence.'

'You have been of great help,' said Holmes, releasing the timid fellow.

'Take care. And don't go anywhere near him! he croaked, before scurrying off across the courtyard and vanishing into a patch of shadows between some houses.

I was rather shaken, I admit, by his dire warnings, and conspicuous display of fear. But Mr Holmes seemed totally unaffected by any such terrors. Silently but surely he made directiy for the house that had been pointed out as the Dark One's quarters. I followed close at his heels. The house seemed to be unoccupied, for there were no lights shining from the windows, and no sounds of any kind either. As soon as we got to the house, Mr Holmes set about trying to open a window. With the aid of a springy dagger (which he had borrowed from Kintup) and a bit of stiff wire, he quickly managed to undo a catch and ease open a frame. He performed the task with a practised dexterity that in anyone else would be sufficient cause for grave suspicions. Once inside the room he pulled the heavy wool curtain over the window.

'Let's have some light then, Hurree.'

I slid open the shield of the lantern. We were in a small antechamber, empty save for a few small chairs around the sides. One door led through a short corridor to the front do6r. I pushed open the other to discover a large and opulent study. The room was lit by two oil lampions of Imperial Dragon design; one hung on brass chains from the ceiling, while the other rested on a small side-table. Thick damask curtains prevented the light from spilling through the windows. The study was furnished in a peculiar mixture of Oriental and European styles. The walls were covered with expensive brocade drapes on which hung heavy giltframed portraits of Manchu dignitaries in court dress. The cupboards, bookshelves, chairs and tables were made of black ebony of exquisite workmanship. The finest piece was a large desk with legs shaped like lion's paws, with a set of drawers fitted with jade knobs.

'I don't like it,' Holmes whispered, putting his lips near my ear. 'Something's not quite right here. Anyhow, we have no time to lose. Let's start with that.' He pointed to the desk.

We had just opened the third drawer when I felt a slight draft against my back, and turned around. Framed in the faint light at the doorway was the shadow of a crooked man, holding something in his hand.

'Perhaps this is what you are looking for,' he said in a low hiss that I felt I had heard somewhere before. Two Chinese soldiers in black uniforms and turbans emerged from behind him and stepped into the room, their rifles poised for action. The crooked man shuffled into the room dragging his right leg. The light revealed a cadaverous-looking blighter with a bent, broken body and a lame right leg, somewhat incongruously dressed in the rich silk robes of a high mandarin. His face was badly distorted, especially the mouth, from which a little trickle of saliva dripped. His complexion was a sickly white, and his eyes, deep within their hollow sockets, seemed to burn with a passionate light. But the most remarkable thing about him was the great bulge of his forehead, which moved and twitched on the occasions when he seemed to feel some great emotion.

'Moriarty!' cried Holmes.

My skin went cold at the name.

'Yes, it is I, Holmes.' His lips twisted in an ugly smirk. 'Come now, why do you not greet your old adversary more warmly. Are you so surprised to see him alive?'

Shocked as he must have been by the unexpected resurrection of his nemesis, Sherlock Holmes reacted with great composure.

'I must confess to just that,' admitted Holmes coolly. 'All the same, if you don't mind my saying so, you have not been wonderfully improved by your recent experiences.'

'Aaah… you mock me, Holmes. But you will pay… It was a wicked, cruel thing to throw me over the precipice… wicked! But did you know the great service you performed for me that day? You are puzzled? You think I am babbling… then listen. As I fell into space… and looked down on death, my memories suddenly came back to me. I remembered my true self… and I remembered my power… yes… my great powers. It was almost too late. I hit the side of a rock-face… and smashed my hip… my leg… my face… but then… aaaah… my power surged through me. So now I live… broken and in pain… but I live. You Holmes…'

'… will, no doubt, go the way of all flesh,' said my friend philosophically, moving a step forward. Immediately both the guards raised their weapons.

'No, no, Holmes. You will stay very still. You have so cleverly managed to give Colonel Moran the slip on every previous occasion. But this time, since you are dealing with me, his master, I must insist on a very different conclusion. So, both of you, take out your weapons… slowly. Put them on the ground… now move slowly to the other side of the room. Very good. Chen Yi, pick up the guns.'

While one guard trained his weapon on us the other stepped forward and picked up our pistols and stuck them in his belt. Moriarty hobbled painfully across the room to the ebony desk, and seated himself behind it. He then tossed the scroll he was carrying onto the desk.

'So you seek the Great Mandala. Much good will it do you, even if you have it. Fool. What can you know of its great secret, when you never even knew mine. You thought I was a genius when actually I was a man whose mind was shattered… memories lost and mental powers reduced to only the intellectual functions. But just that paltry fraction of my power – and a little help from my Chinese friends, who helped to establish me in Europe to avenge themselves against the nations that had humiliated China – was sufficient to create the greatest criminal empire in the world. What can you do against me now? Now that my powers have been restored to me.'

He paused to see the effect of his speech on Sherlock Holmes, who, unperturbed as ever, looked straight back at him with calm dignity.

'You do not believe me? Maybe a demonstration would be in order. I owe you that, at least. You threw me into that chasm… and, well, I am a man who believes in returning favours.'

He raised his hands, his fingers forming strange mudras or occult gestures. It may have been my overwrought imagination but I distinctively felt some energy move across the room. The lamps flickered, and I felt a strange sensation in the pit of my belly, as if a hand had grabbed me there. The two soldiers may have felt something too, for I clearly heard both of them suck in their breath in audible gasps.

The effect on Mr Holmes was alarming. His eyes grew wide with terror. His mouth opened to emit a sharp scream, which ended in a low, frantic gurgle. His body swayed forward, his hands stretched out, flailing wildly, as if he was balancing for dear life on the edge of something terrifying. I was certain that he was being subjected to some kind of powerful mesmeric force that actually made him see and experience falling over a precipice. I am not inexperienced with this strange force, having once been unhappily subjected to a seance by Lurgan [36] , back in Simla – but I need not go into that now. But the suddenness and overwhelming force of this present phenomenon was beyond the bounds of anything imaginable. Slowly Mr Holmes seemed to lose his balance, and with a great cry fell forward onto the floor. In spite of the armed guards, who had their weapons trained on me, I rushed forward to assist my stricken friend.

Just at that moment the sharp report of rifle-fire broke into the room. What in heaven's name was going on out there? Had the Chinese soldiers commenced firing on the mob? Professor Moriarty dropped his hands and turned his head in the direction of the fusillade. He barked an order to a guard. 'You! Go to the front quickly and ask His Excellency the Amban what is going on. Report back immediately'

I was tending to Mr Holmes and trying desperately to resuscitate him. I was very gratified to note that he was not deceased or even critically incapacitated. He was breathing heavily, gasping sometimes, but, feeling my hands on his shoulder, he opened his eyes. For just a brief moment he appeared somewhat bewildered – a state I had never seen him in before – but his indomitable strength of character quickly reasserted itself and his eyes resumed their normal alert and intelligent quality. I helped him to a chair.

'You have recovered, Holmes?' gloated Moriarty. 'Good. Very good. Pathetic as your mental powers are when compared to mine, they never fail to astonish me. Any other man would be a gibbering wreck by now. But I should not have expected anything less from the great Sherlock Holmes.'

A few more bursts of gunfire echoed outside. Moriarty drew aside the curtain from the window beside him and peered out.

'Don't expect your dirty Thibetan friends to save you,' he said, turning around and facing us again. 'A few more volleys from the guard's rifles and they will all take to their heels. "A whiff of grapeshot" Eh!… "A whiff of grapeshot". Bonaparte knew how to deal with rabble.' The Professor bent forward over the desk and glared at Holmes with manic eyes.'… and he knew power; crude as his notions of it may have been, he knew how it had to be wielded – with force and ruthlessness!'

'Brag and Bounce,' I thought to myself. The blighter's conceit was really insufferable. I could not help but offer a refutation, though I regretted it the moment I did.

'Yet, if I may be permitted a historical retrospective,' said I, delicately,'the Corsican brute ended his life as a wretched prisoner of His Sovereign Majesty, King George the Third.'

'Yes, fool,' he turned to me with a snarl. 'He failed because his powers were only those of the intellect, of military stratagems and political plots. Great as such an intelligence may seem to a dolt like you, they are as nought against the power of the primordial mind. But perhaps my demonstration on Holmes did not convince you. Perhaps you would like one yourself?'

Before I could offer a polite refusal he held up his right hand and pinched his index finger and thumb together. Although I was about ten feet away from that dreadful man, I distinctly felt something tweaking my nose – and hard! I nearly jumped out of my bally skin.

'Does this quite convince you now, my fat Hindu friend? Or perhaps a little more pressure would reinforce the salutary effect of this lesson.'

'Yeow! Ow! Ow!' I could not but help yell out. 'Eduff! I dink I am abdolutely codvinced. Yeow!'

He did not release my nose immediately, dam' his eyes, but held on even more firmly for a few moments more, before finally letting go after a last savage tweak.

'Yeow!'

While I rubbed my poor nose, Moriarty leaned back on his chair and resumed his boasting speech.

'Awesome as the force I have just demonstrated may seem to you, it is nevertheless subject to the laws of nature and the cosmos, and thus inherently limited. Others, though only a few, possess such powers as mine. But there is a way to increase its strength – a hundred fold, a thousand fold – and I have, at long last, found the way.'

He raised a finger. As if at a command the scroll on the desk unrolled itself and lay flat on the surface.

'And this will lead me to it.' He pointed to the circular geometrical painting, its colours gleaming like living rainbows under his deathly white finger. 'And only I will be the master of it. This time none of those weak-minded lamas with their tiresome pieties will be permitted to come between me and my destiny.'

As Moriarty ended his mad diatribe, the yelling of the mob outside became distinctively louder; suddenly the window on his side, behind the guard, exploded, as a rock smashed through it and flew into the room. By Jove! The demonstrators were shying missiles in retaliation to the shooting. The guard turned around in surprise.

Mr Holmes did not hesitate to seize this opportune moment. He leaped forward and fisted the cad soundly on the side of his head. It was a well-executed and powerful blow – obviously Sherlock Holmes was fully versed in the manly art of pugilism -for the guard was effectively incapacitated by that single cuff.

The speed of my own reflexes were not very much behind those of Mr Holmes. My many experiences in various ticklish situations had honed my reactions to a fine edge; and anyhow, fear is always a powerful goad to speedy action. Such is the tremendous galvanic force of the trained human reflex, that before I had even conceived a thought of assailing my foes, my fingers were already curling around the base of the shining lampion on the small table by my side. And before Moriarty could have any idea of what I was up to, I had picked it up and hurled it straight at him.

Unfortunately, I missed. I was a good three feet off the mark. The lamp flewpast the villain and struck the wall behind, and fell broken on the floor. He didn't even flinch, just looked directiy at me with those terrifying eyes. I was, I will admit, a trifle abashed by this turn of events.

'I should opine that the damaged article was not particularly valuable… ' I said, rather sheepishly.

'Silence, fool!' he snarled, the veins on his bulging forehead twisting and jerking in an appalling fashion.'Did you think to save your miserable skin by such a pitiful trick?'

He raised his hands as if to deliver another one of his horrible spells, while I stood there helpless as a frog before a cobra. But then I noticed a flickering glow behind him, and suddenly the Professor was jumping about, screaming like a lunatic. The glow became brighter to reveal the flames devouring the edge of his robe and the carpeted floor, where the oil from the broken lamp had spilled and ignited.

'But quick man,' Holmes shouted. 'Run!'

I did not hesitate but made straight for the door, followed by Sherlock Holmes. I came to the ante-chamber and would have carried on running through the front door – and into goodness knows what other dangers – but was opportunely seized by the shoulders by Mr Holmes's strong hand and propelled to the window by which we had earlier effected ingress, and quickly bundled out through it. Without pausing for thought or circumspection, I sped on through the courtyard, once colliding with and overturning a pile of boxes, till I reached the back wall, where I frantically searched for the small door.

'Here, Hurree,' whispered Holmes, opening the small barred door. Oh, blessed relief.

We got to the other side with no further problems. We ran through the alleyway and up to the front of the inn where Kintup was waiting for us with our ponies. We rode swiftly away from that awful place, the drumming of our horses' hooves drowning the dying clamour of the mob.

20 To the Trans-Himalayas

A hot, satisfying repast of yak-tail soup and momos awaited us on our return to the Jewel Park. I gratefully tucked in. Food has always been a great solace to me in moments of difficulties and upset nerves, but Sherlock Holmes waved away the steaming dishes. It was one of his peculiarities that in his more intense moments he would permit himself no food – sometimes even starving himself for days during an investigation. [37]

'At present I cannot spare energy and nerve for digestion,' he said to the Lama Yonten, who seemed to understand and approve of Mr Holmes's abstinence, for he immediately ordered the waiters not to bother him further. Certain Buddhist and Hindu teachings consider the custom of fasting to be a great spur to the intellect. Mr Holmes though, was the first instance I had come across of a European practising this.

Instead he drew a cigarette from his case and, lighting it, related to the anxious Lama our adventures of the evening. The Lama Yonten was, predictably, horrified with the way everything had gone wrong, and how we had only managed to escape from the clutches of the Dark One by the skin of our teeth.

'Merciful Tara. This is terrible. It was unforgivable of me to allow you to put your lives at such risk.'

'You must not upset yourself over it, Reverend Sir,' said Holmes reassuringly. 'When all's said and done, we did manage to come out of it without too much damage.'

'Not quite, Mr Holmes. I just received word from Tsering that two men were wounded by the firing from the Chinese legation -though not mortally so – thanks be to the Buddha. But far more serious is the matter of your exposure to the Dark One, or Moriarty, as you know him. The Amban is bound to lodge a serious complaint to the Regent about unauthorised foreigners in the city.'

'With our locus standi in this country fast becoming a questionable one,' said Holmes, 'it is vital that we act swiftly.'

'The Regent will also lose no time in pressing charges of treason against me,' said the Lama Yonten mournfully. The Lama's melancholia was infectious and even dampened somewhat the tremendous joie de vivre I was experiencing from having survived that terrifying encounter with Moriarty. The Lama's low spirits also reminded me of the original purpose of our mission – and its failure.

'Oh! Dash it all!' I exclaimed, disgusted with myself. 'After all the trepidation and bother, and I did not even think to appropriate the bally scroll before fleeing the scene.'

'Don't be too hard on yourself, old fellow,' said Holmes, 'I nearly forgot too, in all that excitement.'

'You have it!' I cried with joy.

He pulled out the scroll from the pouch of his heavy robe. 'Yes. We have not yet met our Waterloo, Hurree – if I may resume Moriarty's Napoleonic analogy – but this is our Marengo, for it began in defeat and ended in victory.'

He pushed the empty dishes on the table to one side, and, unrolling the scroll carefully, laid it flaton the surface of the table. He then methodically examined it with his magnifying lens.

The painting, on sized cotton, was about one and a half feet by two, but its rich brocade border brought it up to the measurements that Mr Holmes had mentioned earlier. The design of the mandala itself was exactly the same as others of the Kalachakra tantra that I had seen before, though the colours on this one were appreciably deeper, probably due to its great age.

'It has obviously been hung for a very long time,' commented Holmes, without looking up from his lens.

'Well, it has been there on the chapel wall,' said the Lama, 'ever since I can remember. And I entered the service of His Holiness's

former sacred body as a boy.'

'… the design on the brocade,' observed Holmes' 'has become distorted by the stretching of the vertical weave in the material – the cumulative effect of time and gravity. Now let us see what we have on the other side.'

He turned the scroll over carefully. On the back of the painting were a number of lines of Thibetan writing in the uniform uchen print. It stated briefly, just as the young Grand Lama had told us, that the painting had been commissioned by the first Grand Lama after his meeting with the 'Messenger,' and his journey to Shambala; followed by the date and the seal of the Grand Lama. Below this were seventeen lines of verse. Thefirst seven lines were a kind of benediction, while the remaining lines formed the actual poem, seemingly a description of the various parts of the mandala structure, but mixed with strange instructions. A queer rigmarole, with something of the flavourof a nursery rhyme. These seventeen lines were written in the cursive umay script, clearly penned with the angular nibbed bamboo peri that Thibetan calligraphers were wont to use. As I remarked at an earlier instance, Mr Holmes was unfamiliar with this script, and he now requested the Lama Yonten to read it to him. The Lama adjusted his spectacles and, bending over to peer at the scroll on the table, read the following lines in his high, sing-song voice:

Om Svastil

Reverence to thee, Buddhas of the Three Ages and Protector of all Creatures.

O, assembled Gurus and Warriors of Shambala.

Out of your great compassion show us the true path.

When wandering through the delusion of samsara guide

us on to the true path.

Facing the sacred direction

Turning always in the path of the Dharma Wheel

Circle thrice the Mountain of Fire

Twice the Adamantine Walls

Proceeding once around the Eight Cemeteries

And Once the Sacred Lotus Fence,

Stand before the Walls of the Celestial City.

Then from the Southern Gate turn to the East

Enter the inner-most palace from the Northern portals

And sit victorious on the Vajra throne. EE – TI!

'It is a lot of gobbledegook,' said I, when the Lama had finished.

'Nay, not necessarily so, Babuji,' objected the Lama Yonten. 'The occult sciences have always used inscrutable and symbolic language to safeguard secret knowledge and prevent its revelation to the profane.'

'So you think, Sir, that this has some hidden meaning?' I asked.

'Verily, though it be hidden from me.'

'And from anyone else, too, I should jolly well think,' said I, scratching my head absolutely mystified.

Sherlock Holmes absent-mindedly sipped a cup of Chinese tea – the only refreshment he had partaken of that day – and once again lit the unsavoury pipe which was the companion of his deepest meditations.

'I wonder…' said he, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. 'Perhaps there are points that have escaped your Spencerian intellect. Let us consider the problem in the light of pure reason. The common denominator in the various pieces of our puzzle -the Grand Lama's proposed retreat, the Ice Temple, the mandala painting, and this cryptic verse – is some kind of connection to Shambala. That is our point of departure.'

'A somewhat broad one, Sir,' said I doubtfully.

'Well, let us see, then, if we can narrow it. As I focus my mind upon the verse, it seems rather less impenetrable. In spite of its cryptic nature, it is not too difficult to see that what we have here is a set of instructions.'

'It is a guide to Shambala!' I cried triumphantly.

'A guide?'

'I mean it is a description of the route to that place. We have the legend that the first Grand Lama may have travelled there. Probably he recorded the route of his journey.'

'Humm. Any other reasons for thinking so?'

'Well, there are also certain words in the message which provide indications of it being some kind of travel itinerary. We have the word…umm "Proceed" in the twelfth line. Then… let me see… aah… "direction"… in the eighth and ninth lines. There are also the many references to "Mountains" and "Walls" and a "City."'

'Good Hurree, good! But not, if I may say so, quite good enough. There are difficulties with your theory. Consider just the tenth and eleventh lines… "Circle thrice the mountain of Fire, Twice the Adamantine Walls"… and others like it. Even if we were to assume that such places did exist, just going round and round them would not get us anywhere.'

'We'd be going around in circles,' I admitted, a trifle abashedly.

'Exactly There are just too many references to circles in this message to make it possible that it is a physical description of a route to some actual destination.'

'You are right, Mr Holmes,' said the Lama Yonten.'The message is probably symbolic. The circle, or the wheel, is the omniscient symbol of the essential principles of our faith; of cause and effect, of birth and death, indeed of the entire cycle of existence itself. Perhaps the message is nothing more than that – just a religious discourse couched in recondite metaphysical terms.'

'That really won't do, Your Reverence,' said Holmes, shaking his head. 'It hardly stands to reason that a man of Moriarty's unregenerate nature should take such trouble to steal a religious tract. No. The message definitely conceals something of great material advantage to the Professor. His own words seem to indicate that he is seeking some tremendous source of power.'

'But exactly what, Mr Holmes?' I demanded.

'There is an appalling directness about your questions, Hurree.' said Holmes, shaking his pipe at me. 'They come at me like bullets.'

'I am sorry, Sir, I did not mean…'

Holmes waved away my apologies. 'The answer to your question lies in the Ice Temple. I really do not think we can form any further conclusions without paying a visit to the place.'

'Well, Mr Holmes,' said the Lama, 'we shall be there in a week, when His Holiness goes there on his retreat. That is if the Regent doesn't have me arrested first and the visit stopped.'

'Then the sooner we get to the temple the better,' said Holmes crisply. 'Is it possible for the Grand Lama's travel plans to be advanced?'

'That would go against tradition,' protested the Lama. 'The date for His Holiness's departure has been especially chosen by the State Astrologer.'

'Well, Sir,' replied Holmes, a trifle brutally, 'you will have to choose between flying in the face of tradition or seeing the end of everything you have worked for, not least, the life of your master.'

The Lama Yonten was silent for sometime, head bowed low, his hand turning the beads of his rosary with soft regular clicks. Finally he sat up and said resignedly at Sherlock Holmes. 'You are, of course, right, Mr Holmes. When shall we leave?'

'The sooner the better. We must not forget that Moriarty may be making a trip of his own to the temple, if he has not been too affected by tonight's mishap. Do you think it would be possible for His Holiness to start tomorrow?'

'Tomorrow,' the Lama Yonten wailed. 'That is impossible.'

But of course, it wasn't.

Next day at dusk a small cavalcade of riders departed inconspicuously from the rear gate of the outer walls of the Jewel Park, by the deserted shores of the Kyichu River. Only a few water fowls (Tib. damcha) watched the passing of the line of men and horses. I rode alongside Mr Holmes, just behind the Grand Lama and the Lama Yonten. Tsering, Kintup and ten Thibetan soldiers rode ahead. Our company had been kept small on Mr Holmes's insistence, he very correctly feeling that anything larger would adversely affect our speed, and, more critically, the secrecy of our expedition.

The young Grand Lama, far from objecting to Holmes's precipitous decision, had been tremendously enthusiastic about it and had refused to pay any attention to the Chief Secretary's many doubts. The Lama Yonten, to give him his due, soon recovered from his initial worries and quickly got down to making all the necessary preparations for our expedition – which were considerable. We could not just 'rough it' as the Grand Lama himself was travelling with us, and proper tents, provisions and bedding had to be arranged. But it was all very efficiently accomplished before the appointed hour of our departure.

The Ice Temple of Shambala was about a hundred miles north of Lhassa – three days' hard riding. It was located, quite uniquely, under a huge mass of trapped glacial ice, squeezed between a deep rift in the Trans-Himalayan range. The Thibetans called this mountain chain Nyenchen-thang-lha after the ancient (preBuddhist) mountain god who held court there. Normally this temple was buried under the glacier, even the entrance being entirely sealed off by a massive wall of ice. But for some hitherto undiscovered reason, this front cliff of ice melts and breaks away once in about half a century, permitting entry to the temple. The Thibetans believe that the ice wall opens at the time that the gods of Thibet consider it propitious for a Grand Lama to assume the throne of the country, and that it has unfailingly opened (though there is no scientific evidence for this) for every incarnation of the Grand Lama – though the last three were prevented from visiting it at the prescribed time. Hence their tragically short lives, and the evil times in the country.

There is a definite limit to the period that the Ice Temple is accessible. About three to four weeks after the initial opening, the glacier begins to move once again and gradually seals the entrance to the Temple, keeping it sacrosanct until the time that another incarnation of the Grand Lama should be ready to sit on the Lion Throne of Thibet.

No convincing scientific explanation has ever been offered for this lusus naturae, though its existence has been reported by certain Russian explorers. My own view on the subject is, I believe, so far unique – if I may be pardoned the term – though I do not insist that it is necessarily the only correct one. The reader may take it as a mere theory; but a theory formulated by an intelligent and empirical observer.

Two distinct facts may be noted: 1. That the glacier is forced to travel in a deep gorge. 2. That the rock-face in front of the gorge – lining the ice wall – is formed of a very hard granitic rock, while the walls of the gorge itself are made up of a softer limestone. Thus, in time, the inner gorge has worn away much more than the mouth, creating a point of tremendous concentration and compression in front of the glacier.

My theory is that the enormous pressure exerted by the entire glacier on this small opening causes a marked decrease in the temperature in the ice at this point, and a subsequent hardening of its consistency (a natural phenomena that can be observed when snow is compressed to form snowballs). Thus an unusually hard and cold ice wall is formed at the front, effectively preventing the gradual melting and movement of the whole glacier, as normally occurs in all other glacial activities.

But though nature can be impeded, it can, of course, never be entirely halted. Year after year, the pressure builds up behind the ice wall, until eventually a point of surfeit is arrived at in the front, when the temperature cannot drop any more, or the ice harden. This slow build up of pressure may take up to fifty years, hence accounting for its coincidence with the coming of age of the Grand Lamas. Once this crucial stage is reached, the entire front of the narrow ice wall breaks open to reveal the entrance to the hidden temple. The sudden drop of pressure and temperature in front causes the whole phenomenon to start all over again, and slowly, in the space of many weeks, the entrance to the temple is once again covered by a solid wall of ice.

It was nearly dark on the second day when we camped at the foot of the pass that led over the mountains. High above us, up into the dark cloudy skies, soared the white jagged peaks of the long mountain chain. Beneath the snows, the slopes were grey with bare rocks and boulders, only an occasional wind-racked dwarf pine and solitary patches of tough gorse providing some relief to this grim scene.

The Grand Lama did not seem to become in any way affected by our hard journey nor the desolation of the surroundings. In fact he seemed to be enjoying himself thoroughly. He was, after all, a boy, and what boy if unnaturally confined for a lifetime to the company of dull teachers, old retainers and guards, would not enjoy the freedom of such an outing – rough though it may be. He ran around the campsite throwing stones at the bushes and joining Mr Holmes asked him innumerable questions about his life, about England and the world. It surprised me to observe Mr Holmes listening and replying patiently to the boy's many queries. But as I had occasion to notice before, underneath that hard, rational exterior and the assured egotism that often annoyed many, he had a remarkable gentleness and courtesy in his dealings with women and children.

Next day we made our way up through the high and forbidding mountains. Our trail was covered with rocks and patches of ice, while higher up it was all snow. Our sturdy ponies plodded on the whole morning, wending their way through the bleak maze of icy peaks, while we huddled on our saddles trying to protect ourselves from the fury of the elements. I tried to shield myself from the occasional sleet with my trusty umbrella, but it was blown inside-out the very first time by a blast of freezing wind, and only after a monumental tussle did I eventually manage to close it, and put it away.

Tsering and the soldiers, who all had long hair, now rearranged their tresses loosely before their eyes to prevent snow blindness. The rest of us had to make do with strips of coloured gauze. At about two o'clock in the afternoon we rode through a particularly windy vale between two massive peaks and, crossing it, finally got the first glimpse of our goal.

The mountains opened up in front of us into a field of glistening snow about a mile long, that abruptly ended in a wide chasm that cut right across it in the dramatic manner of the Grand Canyon in North America. A natural bridge of ice spanned this chasm and was seemingly the only way across it. On the other side the snow field continued – littered with great chunks of icy debris – and was gradually hemmed in between sheer cliffs of rock that fanned out from the high narrow front of the glacial wall. This wall of ice stood at least five hundred feet high and about a hundred feet wide, smooth and vertical, like a gigantic pane of glass. At the base of the wall was a dark regular opening which I realised was the entrance to the Ice Temple of Shambala. The ground in front of the wall was covered with thousands of pieces of broken ice, giving the impression of a stormy, wave-tossed sea that had become suddenly frozen.

Shivering on the backs of our ponies, we surveyed this awesome scene. I also took the precaution of examining the various details of the surrounding topography with my small telescope.

'Well, Mr Holmes,' said I cheerfully, removing the instrument from my eye, 'it seems that your insistence on speed has paid dividends. We have certainly arriyed here before Professor Moriarty and his Chinese chums. I can see no sign of any human presence around here.'

'But that is not as it should be,' said the Lama Yonten, worriedly.

'What do you mean, Sir?' asked Sherlock Holmes.

'Two monks, the "Watchers of the Ice Temple ", live here, in a cave at the side of that ridge.' The Lama pointed to the mountain to our right. 'Besides their main task of reporting the opening of the temple entrance, it is one of their duties to prevent travellers from crossing that bridge and inadvertently profaning sacred ground. But where are they?'

'They may be in their cave. They may not have heard us coming.'

'That is not possible. The surrounding mountains funnel all sounds from the valley towards their cave. That is why it was chosen. They should have heard our arriving at least an hour ago, and come to receive us.'

'Humm. It would be well if we were cautious,' said Holmes grimly, his brows knitting with concern, 'Let me have that spyglass of yours for a minute, Hurree.'

'Certainly, Sir.'

He clapped the instrument to his eyes and made a systematic survey of the surroundings. The rest of us waited silently, A little chill of fear crept into me as I realised that I may have spoken too soon.

'The small wooden door to the "Watchers" cave is open and swinging about in the wind,' said Holmes anxiously. 'On the opposite ridge aflightof snow pigeons is circling nervously above its nests. Wherever they are, they are well-hidden.'

'We have to go between those two ridges to get to the ice bridge,' said Tsering gravely. 'I think they may be waiting behind them.'

'When do you think they will attack?'

'Probably when we get near the ice bridge and descend from our ponies to walk across. That would be the most dangerous moment. We would be trapped like bugs between the claws of a scorpion.'

'Well, we shall see,' said Holmes calmly. Turning towards us he addressed us in a firm, measured tone. 'We will ride single file, with His Holiness and the Lama Yonten in the centre. Tsering and I will ride in front with five soldiers. Kintup and the other five soldiers will follow the Lamas. You, Hurree, will bring up the rear. On the first sign of an attack we will race straight to the bridge and ride across it. It may seem a foolhardy thing to do, but it is the only chance we have against a large enemy force. Over here the valley is too flat and bare. Once we cross the ice bridge you, Tsering, will position the soldiers behind those large blocks of ice and hold off all pursuers. It will not be too difficult since they will only be able to cross the bridge single file. The Lama Yonten and I will take His Holiness inside the temple. Now remember, don't hesitate at the bridge. Ride straight across it. They will not be expecting us to do that, and it may provide us the necessary element of surprise for the success of our plan. Good Luck.'

It was the measure of the man's great personality, and the cool confidence and calm authority with which he outlined his plans, that not one of us raised a single objection or question, but prepared ourselves to carry out his orders. We rode single file across the vale. I rode in the rear, not feeling too happy with my position but prepared to take on the worst. I extracted the revolver, issued to me from the guard's armoury at the Jewel Park, from within the folds of my robe, and, throwing off the safety catch, stuck it in my belt in front of me. As we passed between the end of the two ridges, I noticed the flock of snow pigeons (Columba leuconota) fluttering above their nests, exactly as Mr Holmes had described; but I did not see any signs of the enemy. Maybe it was just a snow leopard (Felis uncia) that had disturbed the birds, I thought. Maybe there were no attackers after all. This happy inspiration greatly raised my spirits, for I had not looked forward to galloping across that ice bridge which was, at most, only a couple of yards wide, and probably slippery as the Devil as well. Just as I was feeling a bit relieved Mr Holmes raised a cry of alarm.

'They're coming! Ride on.'

I did not bother to look around but whipped my steed and got it moving at a rapid trot. I had just covered about a hundred feet when I saw a company of soldiers, all of them dressed in black, riding towards us from behind the ridge where the snow pigeons had been disturbed. I turned to look at the opposite ridge, hoping I would not see what I expected to see, but I did. Another company of riders came out from behind the mountainside and charged straight towards us.

For a moment both groups of attackers reined in their horses and looked around confusedly. They were obviously surprised at the way we were unhesitatingly racing towards the bridge. But they immediately recovered, and, shouting blood-curdling Chinese war cries, 'Sha! Sha!' (Kill! Kill!) galloped towards us. By now our column of horsemen was proceeding at fiill speed, but the attackers began to gain on us. To make matters worse, they were closing in on our rear, where I was riding. I kicked my pony hard in the flanks to coax some more speed out of it.

As the animal accelerated forward I turned around in my saddle to observe my pursuers. There must have been at least sixty of the blighters in toto. They were wearing black uniforms and had black turbans wrapped around their heads. Belts of ammunition were slung across their chests, while on their backs were modern repeating rifles and large executioner's swords – or da dao, as the Chinese call them – just like the one that had featured so prominently in my near execution in Shigatse, on my previous visit to Thibet. By Jove. These were definitely Imperial Manchu troopers, not just the Amban's bodyguards.

Looking before me I saw that Tsering had reached the ice bridge. He did not hesitate – brave fellow – but spurred his mount on. The bridge curved up a bit towards the middle in an arch, so that a clear view was afforded me of his crossing. His pony's hooves scrabbled desperately to get a purchase on the icy surface, and somehow it managed to keep moving and soon got to the other side. Five of our soldiers followed without any problems, as did Mr Holmes, the Grand Lama and the Lama Yonten. The remainder were successfully making the crossing until the last Thibetan soldier in the column got to the bridge.

His pony scrambled up to the middle with no problem, but just when it was descending, its rear hooves slipped on the ice and it fell heavily on its side. Its legs desperately kicking and pawing the air in a vain attempt to right itself, the animal slid to the edge of the bridge. Then with a last pitiful whinny it fell into the chasm. The rider had tried to throw himself clear when the pony fell, but his feet had become entangled in the stirrups, and he was dragged over as well. He gave an awful cry as he plunged slowly into that bottomless gorge of ice, and the echoes of this human and animal terror reverberated through the mountains like a pronouncement of doom.

I urged my steed on desperately, but just as it got to the bridge I heard a crazed yell behind me and turned around. Close behind me were the Imperial troopers, waving their ugly swords in a very truculent manner. One soldier in particular, a pock-marked, yellow devil, was immediately behind me. He raised his huge sword. I flinched. There was a bang. A red splotch like a carnation in bloom suddenly appeared in the middle of his forehead; and with a look of infinite bewilderment fixedupon his face, he toppled backwards off his horse.

Our soldiers had already taken up defensive positions behind the blocks of ice and were firing at our attackers, who, in spite of their numbers, were in a very exposed situation. I quickly managed to cross the bridge as confusion struck my pursuers. Once across, I rode up to the ice wall and quickly dismounted, seeking cover behind the large chunks of ice strewn about the place. Tsering, Kintup and the soldiers had positioned themselves securely and obviously did not need my assistance, so I picked my way through the ice and followed Mr Holmes and the Lamas to the temple.

At the base of the gigantic ice wall was an entrance, rather like the mouth of a large cave, but cut more regularly, like an upright rectangle, and at least forty feet high. On either side of the entrance, upon huge pedestals of dark basaltic rock, were colossal statues of winged lions posing en couchant, and measuring about twenty-five feet from the crown of their heads to the base of the pedestals. They were unlike any representations of lions I had seen before. They were certainly not of Indian design. There was a hint of Babylonian influence in the wings, but everything else about them, the heads, the features, the lines and the postures were definitely not Mesopotamian, nor even of Asian or Chinese origin.

Could it be that these were the works of a lost civilisation that had existed thousands of years before the present-day Thibetans had inhabited the land? The fine condition of the statues, which were hardly damaged or eroded, could be explained by the fact that they were usually buried under the ice and only had to face periods of exposure twice a century. Maybe like Herr Schliemann, who had discovered the ruins of Troy just a few years ago, I had discovered an entire ancient civilisation unknown to anyone in the world. I decided to call it the Tethyian civilisation, after the prehistoric sea of Tethys from under which the plateau of Thibet and the Himalayan mountains had emerged many millions of years ago.

The noisy passage of a bullet past my head caused me to terminate my scientific musings, and clutching my umbrella, I quickly ran in through the vast temple door.

21 The Ice Temple of Shambala

Once my eyes had become used to the dimmer light inside, I realised, with some disappointment, that the interior of the cave was quite small – only about forty by forty feet. The walls were covered with strange carvings and inscriptions, reminiscent of Egyptian hieroglyphics but far more abstract and fantastic. The chamber was wretchedly cold and clusters of icicles hung from the corner of the ceiling and covered parts of the wall. A thick carpet of powdery snow covered the floor, and squeaked loudly under our boots.

The Lama Yonten was helping the Grand Lama to rest in a corner of the temple, and had laid his cloak on the ground for him to lie on. The young lad, it will be remembered, had only just recovered from a serious illness, and our desperate race across the bridge had overtaxed his frail constitution. I extracted a small hipflask of brandy (which I carry only for medical emergencies, since I am a strict teetotaller) and, unscrewing the cap, poured some of the vital fluid down his throat. He coughed and gasped, but the colour began to come back to his bloodless cheeks.

Mr Holmes was unsuccessfully striking vestas against the wall in order to light our dark lantern. Somehow his matches had become wet, so I went over to him and proffered a box of dry ones that I fortunately had on me. He quickly lit the lantern. After he adjusted the shutters, it threw a brilliant beam of light onto the opposite wall. He directed the beam around the room, which was quite bare except for the wall inscriptions, until in the middle of the chamber, the light shone upon a strange multi-tiered structure which rested on a stone pedestal. A blanket of powdery snow covered the whole thing, making it look like a large wedding cake.

'That is the Great Mandala! said the Lama Yonten. 'The very one used by the Messenger of Shambala when he gave the master initiation to the first Grand Lama.'

Sherlock Holmes went over to the structure and commenced to dust the snow from its surface with his muffler. I joined him in the task, until very soon we were done. The mandala was about six feet high, while the base, a one-foot-thick stone disc, was nearly seven feet in diameter. Progressively smaller stone discs, squares and triangles were meticulously stacked on top of it, one over the other, forming a structure halfway between a squat cone and a pyramid. On the very top was a tiny delicate model of a pagoda with a graceful canopied roof. Although the basic lines and circles of this mandala were nearly the same as that of the painted scroll, the stone mandala lacked the ornamentation and colours of the latter. It looked stark and utilitarian. More like the diagrammatic proof of a complex mathematical formula than a religious symbol.

While I held the lantern above him and directed its beam wherever required, Mr Holmes crouched to subject this strange structure to an examination with his magnifying lens. Five minutes sufficed to satisfy him, for he rose to his feet and put away his lens. Then, placing his hands firmly against the side of the thick stone disc, he proceeded to exert his full strength, in a somewhat oblique direction, against the weighty object. I did not notice anything, but some slight change must have occurred for Mr Holmes stopped and grunted in satisfaction.

'It moves,' he said, a note of triumph in his voice.

'What does it mean?' I asked.

'It means our little mystery, the riddle of the cryptic verse, is nearly solved.'

'I do not understand, Mr Holmes.'

'You will remember we agreed that the verse was a set of instructions, probably for the disinterment of something concealed – something precious. Since the symbolism of the mandala structure is used in the verse, what is more logical than to conclude that the instructions refer to an actual mandala – but one that is palpably whole and upright.'

'So that we can move around it in particular circles, like the instructions say?' said I puzzled. 'But…'

'No no, my dear Hurree. Not to move around it but to move it. My cursory examination has revealed that this structure has not been hewn from the a single piece of stone but has rather been assembled – each layer of it – from separately sculpted pieces, each capable of being moved, or rather rotated, around a central axis.'

'Like the tumblers of a lock?'

'Exactly. Your choice of an analogy is a happy one, for this mandala is – if my reasoning is correct – a lock, albeit an unusual and considerable one.'

'But what about a key then, Mr Holmes. We do not have it.'

'Oh, tut, man. We need not be so literal. The verse is our key.'

'I have been very obtuse…' said I, abashed, but Mr Holmes had no time for my self-reproaches, and was in a fever to begin testing his theory.

'Now, Hurree, if you could lend a hand here, and… excuse me, Reverend Sir,' he turned to the Lama Yonten, 'if you could kindly read the verse to us.'

The Grand Lama had now recovered and insisted on holding the lantern, while the Lama Yonten unrolled the mandala scroll and read the lines on the back. 'Ora Svasti. Reverence to thee…'

'We can skip the benedictory lines,' interrupted Holmes 'and proceed with the actual instructions.'

'As you wish, Mr Holmes,' replied the Lama, quickly perusing the verses, underlining the word with this bony forefinger. 'Let me see. Hmm… ah yes… the instructions start here. "Facing the sacred direction…"'

'What would that be?'

'North, Mr Holmes. Shambala is properly referred to as "Shambala of the North."'

'So that would necessitate us having our backs to the entrance and facing the mandala from that direction. Let us see now…'

'I have it, Mr Holmes,' I cried exultantly, scraping away the snow at the base of the mandala exactly across the entrance.'There is a crossed vajra [38] inscribed on the floor here. This probably marks the direction from which we start.'

'That is the very place where the Grand Lama must sit when meditating on the mandala! said the Lama Yonten.

'So we can take it as our starting point,' said Holmes briskly. 'Now let us have the next line in the verse.'

'"… turning always in the path of the Dharma wheel…" '

'Bear in mind, Hurree, that all our operations will have to be conducted clockwise. Pray continue, Sir.'

' "… Circle Thrice the Mountain of Fire."'

'That would be the base of the mandala. See the design of flames carved into the stone. Now, Hurree, let us attend to it with a will.'

It was not an easy task. Both Mr Holmes and I were grunting with the effort, but finally the giant disc moved slowly. As per the instructions we rotated that bally deadweight three times around its axis, finishing exactly where we started, by the crossed vajra mark on the floor. I collapsed with exhaustion.

'"… Twice the Adamantine Walls…" ' the Lama droned on.

'Come on Hurree,' Mr Holmes exhorted me. 'This one will be easier. It's much smaller.'

Mr Holmes was right. The 'Adamantine wall' disc wasn't as heavy as the ' Mountain of Fire ' disc, and we only had to rotate it twice. The 'Eight Cemeteries' disc was even easier, while the one after that, 'The Sacred Lotus Fence' disc, I managed by myself.

On the fifth tier the mandala changed shape; from the circular discs of the earlier mountains, walls and fences, to a square plinth with protuberances on each side – the four walls of the Sacred City and its four gates.

' "… Then from the Southern Gate turn to the East…"'

Following the instructions we turned the square plinth a three quarter turn. Now came the last item in the verse. 'The Innermost Palace ', which was the pagoda with the canopied roof, on the very top of the mandala. It was a tremendously exciting moment. While Mr Holmes gave the little pagoda half a turn from the South to the North – as the instructions specified, we waited with bated breath for the result.

Nothing happened.

A cold chill of disappointment coursed through my body. It seemed to me that somehow Mr Holmes must have made a radical mistake in his chain of reasoning.

'We are undone, Hurree,' said he, a pained look on his face. He turned away, and biting hard on the stem of his pipe paced restlessly about the chamber, kicking up a small storm of powder snow in his wake. He kept up his choleric perambulations for about ten minutes, when all of a sudden a happy thought seemed to strike him. He brightened at once, and snapped his fingers.

'The Vajra throne,' he cried. 'We have omitted "… and sit victorious on the Vajra throne…"'

'But that only seems to be a concluding symbolism of some kind, Mr Holmes,' said the Lama Yonten.

'We have moved everything movable in the mandala! said I despondently. 'There is nothing more left to manipulate.'

'Let us see,' said Holmes, going over to the mandala. He careftilly studied the pagoda on the top with his lens, and then with the thin blade of his pocketknife, gently prised open the miniature doors of the littie temple. Within the pagoda was a tiny crystal throne carved in the shape of a crossed vajra. It was a beautiful thing. As the Grand Lama directed the beam of the lantern on it, Mr Holmes carefully studied this miniature objet d'art closely with his lens.

'But what shall we do now, Mr Holmes?' said I. 'We have no instructions about what to do with it.'

'Ah, but we do, Hurree,' said he cheerfully. He paused. 'We sit on it.'

With that he put the tip of his forefinger on the crystal throne and gently pressed it down. There was an audible click – as if some kind of lever had been activated. Then the crystal throne began to glow with an eerie green light. It slowly became brighter till its radiance suffused the North wall of the chamber with a light as brilliant as that of a full moon in mid-summer. The mandala itself began to vibrate spasmodically, the tremors increasing in intensity till the entire temple shook in an alarming manner.

To our consternation some of the icicles broke off the roof of the chamber and crashed onto the floor, throwing up sprays of snow. Mr Holmes quickly grabbed the Grand Lama and, doing his best to cover the lad's body with his own, retreated to a corner of the chamber. The Lama Yonten and I also hurriedly backed away from the mandala, which seemed to be the source of all this tremendous energy.

As I retreated to the rear wall, I tripped on a piece of fallen icicle and staggered backwards. I expected to fall against the wall and put my hands behind me to take my weight, but to my surprise I encountered nothing and fell clean backwards. Even more alarming was the fact that my descent backwards did not stop at the floor but continued in a precipitate and confusing manner for quite some time, till finally I landed with a painful bump, somewhere in utter darkness.

'Hulloa, Hurree! Can you hear me?' Mr Holmes's distant voice slowly filtered into my scrambled mind. I shook my head to clear it.

'I am here, Mr Holmes!' I yelled back.

'Are you all right?'

I took stock of my condition and situation. 'I think so, Sir. There are no bones broken, anyway.'

'Excellent. Where exactly are you?'

'I seem to be at the bottom of an awful abyss, Sir. I am of the opinion that the entrance should be somewhere in the middle of the wall opposite the temple door.'

'Good man. Hang on for a minute. I'll get a light down there soon.'

A few moments later a welcome glow of light appeared in the darkness above me. Gradually, as the light descended and became brighter, I was able to discern the comfortably familiar outline of Sherlock Holmes' tall figure, holding the dark lantern and walking down a long stone staircase – which must have been the one I had tumbled down. Behind him the two Lamas followed.

'You are to be congratulated, Hurree,' said Holmes cheerfully, coming up to me. 'The honour of discovering the secret of the mandala is yours.'

'Is this all, Mr Holmes?' said I, disappointed. 'All that mystery and noise and fuss, just to conceal a passage way?'

'Patience. We shall know when we get to the end of it.' He pointed the lantern in the direction opposite to the staircase. 'See, it does not stop here but continues much further.'

The Lama Yonten and the Grand Lama made solicitous enquiries as to my state of health subsequent to my sudden descent, and gave loud thanks to the 'Three Jewels', the Buddhist Trinity, for my deliverance.

We proceeded down the passage cautiously, with Mr Holmes in the lead holding the lantern, and the rest of us following closely behind him. Though the passage was very long it was surprisingly straight and true, without even the slightest bend, dip or rise during its entire length. The walls were constructed to an exactness that would certainly tax a modern engineer. As we proceeded, the light from the lantern shimmered off the surface of the walls. I reached out to touch it and was surprised to discover how smooth it was – smoother than marble, even glass. There were no seams or joints, no interruptions of any kind in the unnatural evenness of the surface. It had clearly been made by a people with very advanced technical knowledge. I mentally began to review all the bits of information I had now acquired about my Tethyian civilisation, and tried to classify them in some systematic order.

Suddenly Mr Holmes paused and signalled us to halt. He then directed the beam of the lantern straight to the floor, which like the temple, was covered with a thin carpet of powdery snow. We were probably arriving at a place where drifts of snow could somehow enter this subterranean corridor.

'What do you think of that?' he asked, indicating a number of footprints clearly impressed on the soft snow.

'Obviously someone has anticipated us,' said I, worried.

'More than one, I'm afraid. There are three distinct sets of impressions. I first observed them just a littie way ago. One of them is obviously a cripple. Notice how the impression of the right foot is quite askew, and also blurred because he dragged that foot.'

'Moriarty!' I exclaimed in horror.

'Yes. As I expected, the Dark One has got here before us. One of his companions led the way, he came next, and the third followed as rearguard. There can be no question as to the superimposition of the footmarks.'

'Do you think the Amban is with him?' asked the Lama Yonten.

'Probably not. The two other impressions are from the same kind of footwear – cheap, cloth-soled Chinese boots, I would think; the kind that can be worn on either foot. I noticed the Chinese soldiers wearing them.'

I was not at all happy about our proceeding with this particularly dangerous venture, especially when highly unscrupulous bounders, fully prepared to commit violences against our persons, awaited us at the end of it.

'Hadn't we better… ' I began to make a suggestion.

'We are doing so,' Holmes interrupted me rather brusquely. He extracted a revolver from within the folds of his robe and cocked it. 'It would be well if we were to proceed with all due caution. Hurree? You are armed?'

'Yes, Sir,' I said resignedly, pulling out the ludicrous weapon from my belt, and began to go through the motions of preparing it for the coming fray.

'You Hurree, will bring up the rear. If anything should happen to me, you will at once escort His Holiness and the Lama Yonten out of this place. Now close the shield of the lantern. We will have to manage in the dark.'

We moved very carefully along the passage, which now gradually, almost imperceptibly, became wider, and strangely less dark, or so I imagined. As we went forward the phenomena became more apparent. Unwilling to trust my own visual senses I tentatively imparted to Mr Holmes my assessment of the luminary intensification. He had noticed it too.

'You are right, Hurree, and it is getting progressively lighter further up the passageway. We must double our precautions. The light will make us more visible, and more vulnerable.'

For another half an hour we advanced stealthily. By this time the passage had so enlarged that it was now the dimensions of a large cathedral. It was also now quite simple to locate the source of our illumination. Hundreds of feet above us hung a massive roof of clear glacial ice, via which a remote daylight filtered through to provide a pale unearthly luminescence in the cavern below.

As we sidled by the left wall of the gigantic passage way, glancing nervously up at this tremendous anomaly of nature, the thought of those millions of tons of unstable ice poised menacingly above our heads did nothing to reassure me about the wisdom of our enterprise. A little way ahead there was a narrow opening in the wall – probably a cleft in the rock, but with the regular lines of an entrance of some kind. Maybe it was the beginning of a branch passage, or the door to a chamber.

Sherlock Holmes stopped a little way before the opening and, getting down on one knee, carefully inspected the white floor. CI don't like it. The alignments of the footmarks change here. They do not all point forward as before, but instead point toward each other in a rough circle. Obviously they gathered around here to confer.'

Meanwhile I had proceeded to the side entrance to have a look inside. I was just stepping into the opening when Mr Holmes shouted a warning. 'Stop, Hurree It is a trap!'

Instinctively I drew back, which was most fortunate, for two shots rang out, the bullets whizzing perilously close past me. I pressed my back hard against the wall and tried to control my breathing and the rhythm of my heart, which were now totally at sixes and sevens. Pressing himself against the wall, Mr Holmes sidled up besides me. 'Moriarty and his men conferred here to prepare a trap for us,' he whispered. 'But in baiting a mouse-trap with cheese, it is well to remember to leave room for the mouse. The entrance was rather too obvious. The footmarks also provided a useful confirmation.'

'But what can we do now, Mr Holmes? I asked. We can only proceed at unequivocal peril to life and limb.'

'Let us not succumb to such morbid anticipations before having exhausted our own resources.' Holmes said sternly. 'First of all we must establish the exact circumstances of our adversaries. Hurree, if crouching very low, you could quickly peep around the corner and fire a few shots in their general direction, it may afford me the opportunity to make a quick reconnaissance. Are you ready? Now!'

I fired three rapid shots around the corner and whipped back to safety, just before a volley of rifle-fire crashed past me and echoed through the many miles of empty caverns. Mr Holmes had managed to duck back safely also, and he now stood with his back pressed to the wall and his eyes filled with frustration.

'The Devil take it!' he cried bitterly. 'They are unassailable.'

'How, exactly, Sir? I did not have time to see anything.'

'The two soldiers are entrenched behind large blocks of ice which provide them absolute protection against our bullets. There is no way they can be flanked, and they have a clear field of fire of the whole entrance. We are trapped here.'

'But we can always retreat, Sir.' I cried out at this folly, flinging my arms out in protest. It was very careless of me, I will grant you, to make impassioned gestures while under fire, for my left hand must have stuck out a bit beyond the corner. There was a sharp crack and I felt a sudden hot sear, as if a red hot poker had been pressed against the back of my hand. I had been shot. Good Heavens! I withdrew my injured limb with alacrity and tried to nurse it with my other hand, which held the revolver. Unfortunately, in the heat and confusion of things I must have dropped my fire-arm on the floor. More unfortunately still, the bally thing was cocked and ready to fire, and so it accidentally discharged a round.

'What the Devil…?' Mr Holmes leapt back in alarm as the bullet zipped past his nose and flew up into the air.

Somewhat embarrassed by this unfortunate accident I lowered my head and affected to examine my wound with great interest. But to my dismay, Mr Holmes's reaction to this minor and absolutely unintended blunder of mine was rather violent and unexpected. He grabbed me by the collar and threw me brutally to one side. Recovering from this uncalled for assault on my person and dignity, I sought to remonstrate with him. 'Really Sir. Such behaviour is unbecoming of an English gentle…'

Just then a great mass of murderously jagged ice crashed down on the very spot where I had just stood. The accidental discharge had struck the ice on the roof and dislodged a large section of it. Mr Holmes must have seen this and taken effective steps to save my life. I censured myself for my want of faith. How could I have, for even a single moment, doubted the integrity of my noble and valiant friend.

'I… I… ' I stammered an embarrassed apology.

But Mr Holmes was chuckling and rubbing his hands together. 'Ha ha! Capital! I never get your limits, Hurree.'

'But…'I began to ask. He held up his hand.

'Once again, Hurree, in your own inimitable fashion, you have demonstrated the solution, le mot de Venigme!

'But…'

'How is your wound, Babuji?' the Lama Yonten enquired solicitously, taking my injured hand in his. 'If I may…'

Fortunately the wound was only a superficial one. The skin at the back of my hand had been scored, but there was little bleeding. The Lama Yonten applied some herbal salve and bound it with my 'kerchief.

'Now Hurree,' said Holmes, methodically reloading my revolver, 'when I give the word, both of us will whip our weapons around the entrance and fire a few quick rounds – not at the soldiers, but at the roof above them – and then withdraw immediately.'

He handed me back my revolver. I knelt low near the floor just by the entrance. Mr Holmes crouched over me, his weapon raised by his head.

'Ready? Now!'

Both of us suddenly stuck our heads round the corner, rapidly fired half-a-dozen shots, and quickly ducked back to safety, just as the Chinese soldiers released a murderous volley in reply. With our backs pressed to the cold wall we held our breath and waited. A couple of seconds later a thunderous roar burst through the entrance, followed by a veritable storm of powder snow which so filled the air that for a minute visibility was reduced to near zero.

Gradually the snow settled down and Mr Holmes and I, firearms at the ready, cautiously walked through the entrance. Our plan had succeeded beyond our expectations, for the two unfortunate Chinamen were completely buried under a mass of icy rubble. The effect had been much greater in this chamber, not only because of the greater amount of ammunition we had expended, but also as the roof was much lower at this point, with great jagged icicles dangling from it.

We circumvented the icy grave. The Lama Yonten muttered some prayers, probably for the souls of the two wretched men entombed there. On the other side, about forty feet away, was another opening. So, this chamber was some kind of vestibule. We crossed the room and walked through this new entrance.

We were now in an enormous, circular, hall-like enclosure, easily a few thousand yards in diameter, covered by a gigantic dome of ice that must have been at least half a mile high at its central point. All around this colossal rotunda were great statues – twenty in number – of grim warriors clad in strange armour. The figures were of gigantic proportions, on a par with the great Buddha statues I had beheld in the Bamiyan valley in Afghanistan. As we surveyed this awesome scene, which would have made Kubla Khan's 'stately pleasure dome' look like an inverted pudding bowl, the Lama Yonten chanced to see something.

'There is a light shining in the centre.'

I applied my telescope to my eye, but could not see very clearly. What with the cold and the damp, some condensation had formed on the inside of the eyepiece; and besides, the instrument was not a very powerful one.

'There is definitely an unusual coruscation in that vicinity,' I reported.'But I cannot make out what is causing the phenomenon.'

'We will know soon enough,' said Holmes laconically. 'Let us move on.'

Twenty minutes walk brought us before a large column of ice – a truncated stalagmite – about six feet high resting on a square stone platform two feet above the ground. The column seemed to be made of an unusual kind of ice, metallic in appearance, and dark – but in a silvery kind of way like a moonlit sky. The strange sheen of the column's surface gave the illusion of not really being solid, but just an opening to deepest space. Little star-like specks of light reflected from the icy dome on its surface reinforced the illusion. But even more wonderful was what rested – or to be exact – what seemed to be suspended a few inches above the top of the column. A perfect crystal, about the size of a large coconut, blazed with an inner fire, its many, perfectly cut facets distributing the light in myriad magical patterns.

'It is the Norbu Rimpoche!' (Skt. Chintamani) whispered the Lama Yonten, obviously awe-struck. 'The great Power Stone of Shambala.'

'But that is a mere legend,' said I, sceptically, for I had often come across the story in my sojourns in the Himalayas and Central Asia. [39]

'Nay, Babuji.' The Lama Yonten interrupted me. 'I recognise the stone from the description in the Sacred Tantra of the Wheel of Time. It is written that the Messenger from Shambala planted two such Stones, one each at the psychic poles of our planet. The first was lost when the sacred continent of Ata-Ling was devoured by the great waves. The second was brought here to Thibet, but was believed to have been taken back to Shambala when the forces of evil gained ascendancy over our land.'

'Yet it has always been here,' said Holmes reflectively. 'Hidden in this vast cavern, the real Ice Temple of Shambala. Probably the location and secret of this temple were lost after the death of the ninth Grand Lama; and since then the entrance chamber has mistakenly been thought to be the actual temple.'

'Much was lost with the demise of the ninth Hallowed Body,' said the Lama Yonten, shaking his head sadly.'But now the discovery of the True Temple and the Power Stone will ensure the rule of His Holiness and the future happiness of our nation. And it is thanks to you, Mr Holmes; you and your brave companion.'

'Are there no thanks for me?' A harsh sneering cackle broke the sanctity of the temple. 'For me, who first discovered the Great Stone of Power?'

22 The Opening of the Wisdom Eye

Both Mr Holmes and I raised our pistols as the broken, cadaverous body of Professor Moriarty, the Napoleon of Crime, The Dark One, shuffled and limped into view from behind the ice column where he had been hiding. 'Journeys end in lovers' meetings,' Moriarty said with false cheer. 'Excellent. Such a perfect reunion could scarce have been expected, even if I had mailed engraved invitations to everyone. We have, of course, Holmes, the busybody, his fat Hindu Sancho Panza – to whom I owe a little something – and,… aah… yes, the Lama Yonten, chief monkey to our brat here… the last Grand Lama of Thibet.'

'Hurree, shoot him if he so much as twitches a finger,' said Sherlock Holmes grimly, raising his revolver and shielding the Grand Lama's body with his own.

'With pleasure, Sir,' said I resolutely, pointing my weapon straight at Moriarty.

Moriarty looked scornfully at us. His altogether unpleasant appearance had definitely taken a turn for the worse since our last encounter at the legation, what with the acquisition of a number or recent weals and burn-marks. 'Do you think it is necessary for me to take those silly gestures and passes any more? You do not believe me. Look!'

A narrow ripple of movement seemed to pass in the air between his eyes and the Stone of Power; and then from the Stone a concentrated wave of some kind of energy shot out and struck our hands. Our weapons disappeared in a flash.

'I assure you, gentlemen,' said Moriarty, with mock civility, 'the very atoms that composed the metals of your primitive weapons have been shredded and scattered to the extremities of the universe. As a demonstration it was perhaps extravagant. You must forgive me this childish display. It is not every day that one discovers the most powerful well-spring of energy in the world.

'Though it was commonly believed that the Great Power Stone of Shambala had been lost or that it had returned to Shambala, I, through lengthy and arduous research, learnt of its continuing existence. In the course of my studies I also discovered that the key to its location lay in the painted scroll that hung in the Grand Lama's chapel in the Jewel Park. In my attempts to acquire the scroll, I was obliged to do away with the Grand Lama – this brat's predecessor – who was unfortunately in the chapel praying, no doubt for the benefit of all pathetic sentient beings. I also had to dispose of that ninny, Gangsar trulku, my erstwhile colleague, who blundered into the scene and made a typically posturing and ineffectual attempt to save the life of his wretched master.

'Unfortunately I was prevented from acquiring the scroll by the Grand Master of the College of Occult Sciences – curse him!- who, taking me unawares, destroyed much of my memory and power. It is fortunate for that puffed-up old dotard that he is dead, for I had much to repay him. But even with part of my mind shattered, a glimmer of my previous quest remained faintly in my memory. After my escape to China and my eventual settlement in England, I was unconsciously drawn to the scientific study of crystals and strange stones – even extraterrestrial ones [40] – which provided me some trivial recreation. Then you, Holmes, restored my powers to me, and I was once again able to embark on my true quest – and accomplish it.'

He hobbled towards the monolith and reaching up, lifted the crystal into his hands.

'Stop! It belongs to Shambala,' cried the Lama Yonten. 'You must not desecrate it with your profane hands.'

'Old Fool!' Moriarty cried harshly, his face distorted with anger and evil anticipation, the veneer of his false civility now beginning to crack. 'For too long have you and your pious kind sat on the greatest force in the universe and just wasted it. Compassion! Enlightenment! Bah! By my own efforts I have discovered the Stone of Power and only I will possess it. And it will be used as it was intended to be used – for power.'

Holding the Stone in both hands Moriarty raised it high above his head, till his entire body was bathed in its myriad flashes of light. It seemed that he was burning in a fierce pyre, but these flames did not consume – they healed, they restored! I could scarce believe my eyes, but there it was. Gradually Moriarty's crooked body straightened till he stood tall and erect. His near cadaverous body filled out with muscle and blood, his shoulders and arms broadened and his sunken chest expanded like a balloon. Wrinkles, scars and blemishes vanished from his face, which now became youthful and comely. But his eyes remained as ever dark and sinister, and his voice harsh and sneering.

'Now, before I subject you to the Stone's awesome powers -though the effect will be somewhat different in your case -perhaps an explanation is in order. It may comfort you to know the precise workings of the force that will collect your final debt to nature. I will try not to be tedious, so bear with me…'

He then embarked upon an extraordinary lecture which was chok-a-block full of very fanciful ideas and wild theories, that he, in a very superior way, considered to be more scientific than the scientific laws formulated by such great thinkers as Mr Dalton or even Mr Newton. Of course it was all bakwas, as we say in Hindustani. I am convinced that his tricks came from a knowledge of jadoo and the power of djinns and demons in his service. There was nothing scientific about it. I mean he even said that light waves were electric and magnetic vibrations, when everyone knows that light is just colours (VIBGYOR) as proved by Mr Newton in his famous prism experiment. Even more crazy was his idea that human thoughts were mere electrical discharges in the brain cells. I mean, how can a scientific man like me even begin to tolerate such ravings. If Moriarty was right then all we had to do for mental inspiration was to stick our finger into one of Signor Galvani's battery piles. Anyhow, I reproduce his entire lunatic lecture for the reader's amusement. That he conducted it in the most condescendingly superior and professorial manner will surprise no one.

'The Power Stone is essentially a crystal,' Moriarty commenced to address us, in a tone one would only be forgiven for adopting towards the village idiot. 'In structure a rhombic dodecahedron to be exact. Though certain elements in its composition are not of this world, its unique properties derive more from its nature as a crystal than anything else. Concerning the knowledge of crystals, our science is yet in its infancy, though the precise geometrical forms of crystals have excited the interests of many thinkers. Are not the five platonic solids, of which Plato had so much to say, just various crystalline forms? And we must not forget the diamond. A mere crystal of carbon, yet the most precious stone on earth.

'The crystal derives its unique quality from the symmetrical lattice structure of its molecules. The tighter the atoms of the lattice are packed together, the more pronounced the qualities of the crystal become and the more enhanced its… aah… special powers. For example, when the formation of carbon molecules is loose, it lacks a lattice structure altogether, and the result is charcoal or soot. With greater pressure, the lattice form is assumed in the formation of the carbon molecules and the result it graphite. When carbon molecules are subjected to tremendous pressure and the lattice structure is packed tight, diamond is formed. But if the molecules and atoms in the lattice form are compacted beyond a certain stage, some crystals develop extraordinary properties. For instance, the crystal of Iceland Spar only permits a certain plane of light to go through it. It may interest you to know, in spite of all the stupid opinions to the contrary, that light waves consist of electrical and magnetic vibrations taking place in all possible planes containing the ray. Thus the crystal of Spar puts the random electric and magnetic vibrations in order as it passes through it. [41] Other crystals, like quartz, also show the ability to order electric vibrations.

'The Power Stone is the ultimate crystal capable of ordering, amplifying and concentrating electrical vibrations of a specific nature beyond all conceivable limits. I have stated that the electrical vibrations needed for the Power Stone were of a specific wavelength. Now, mental energy consists, basically, of millions upon millions of infinitesimal electrical discharges occurring every second in our brains, and of the precise wave-length required to activate the Power Stone. Since most people have no control over their mental activities, the Stone is as useful to them as a fiddle to a cow. But for a trained master of the occult, who not only can project his cerebral impulses outside his brain, but direct them where he will, this crystal becomes a true Stone of Power. And it is mine.'

While Moriarty had been indulging in his long boastful lecture, I had arrived at the inescapable conclusion that we were all doomed if we did not do something, and jolly quick too. But what could we do? I glanced over at Mr Holmes to see if he had anything up his sleeve. But it was clear that there was nothing he could do without Moriarty noticing, for the Professor's full attention was directed at his arch-enemy. Indeed it was apparent that Moriarty's self-congratulatory and swanking speech was intended wholly for Mr Holmes's benefit. The rest of us – even I – were, intellectually, mere worms in Moriarty's eyes. It was a humiliating realisation, but it stirred the veriest beginning of an idea in my head.

Once again it would be up to me, Hurree Chunder Mookerjee (M.A.), to teach our arrogant Professor Moriarty (Ph.D.), a little lesson in Christian humility and common courtesy.

Mr Holmes was standing directly in front of Moriarty about twenty feet away from him. Behind Holmes were the two Lamas, both of whom, I am proud to say, were standing bravely erect not showing a whit the great fear they must have felt. I was to their right, a couple of yards away, a distance that I managed to slowly and considerably increase by the subtle performance of a series of almost imperceptible casual shuffles. When I judged that I could not proceed any further without attracting Moriarty's unwelcome attention, but that I was sufficiently beyond his immediate frontal vision, I drew in my breath and 'let slip the dogs of war'.

I was holding the dark lantern in my left hand. Deftly transferring it to my right, I flung it at the Professor. As the reader may have guessed, I was attempting to duplicate my previous incendiary success at the Chinese legation. Alas, it was not to be. Once again I missed Moriarty. The lamp struck the column and, bouncing off, clattered uselessly on the stone dias. No great gout of flame, not even a bally spark, came out of that damn thing. I had forgotten how robustly these modern safety lanterns were constructed. Moriarty – confound the man – did not duck, or even flinch at my attack, but laughed aloud in his sinister way.

'Ah… how kind of you to remind me of our unfinished business. I had almost forgotten. Now…'

'Look out, Hurree!' cried Holmes. But it was too late. Much, too late.

A brief current of light flashed from Moriarty's eyes to the Stone of Power. Suddenly a ball of fire shot forth from the Stone. It struck me full in the chest and threw me violently backwards. I seemed to lose consciousness for a moment, then I felt the pain, which was intense. It coursed through me like liquid fire. Then there was Mr Holmes crouching over my supine form, a look of intense sorrow and anguish on his face.

'Hurree, my friend. Can you hear me?'

I smelt the scorched flesh of my torn chest, and knew that it was all over; that I was now embarking on my final voyage on the khafila of life.

'I am dead, Mr Holmes,' I said simply. But it was not going to be as simple as that, for I heard Moriarty's strident objections to my speedy demise.

'No, no, my fat friend. Not so fast. You will burn for a long time before you perish altogether. Coals of fire. Eh! Coals of fire. Ha. Ha. Ha.'

Even in my final moments I was to be denied any peace or solace. Moriarty's maniacal laughter rent the air, and echoing off every point on the great dome of ice, filled the place with its horrid, exaggerated mimicry.

'Who shall it be now?' Moriarty cackled hideously. 'No. Not you Holmes. You will see this thing through to the end. It is necessary that you observe the suffering you have caused your friends by your impertinent meddling in my affairs. But where shall we start? Let us think. Shall we now see the Grand Lama onto his journey to the heavenly fields, as they so charmingly put it in this country?'

'Mr Holmes!' cried the Lama Yonten in despair. 'You must save His Holiness.'

'Old Fool!' laughed Moriarty. 'What can you expect this Englishman to do against my power – and the power of the Stone?'

'Listen to me!' the Lama Yonten shouted desperately to Sherlock Holmes. 'You are not really English. You are one of us. You have the power too.'

'What do you mean, monkey?' cried Moriarty, but the Lama Yonten's whole attention was focused on Sherlock Holmes, whom he was frantically shaking by the lapel of his Ladakhi robe. For the first and only time I saw Mr Holmes looking dazed. His mouth hung open and his eyes were glazed over. But the Lama Yonten desperately persisted in his attempt to persuade Sherlock Holmes of his rather lunatic conviction.

'Mr Holmes Mr Holmes. Listen to me. You are not Sherlock Holmes! You are the renowned Gangsar trulku, former abbot of the White Garuda Monastery, one of the greatest adepts of the occult sciences. The Dark One slew you eighteen years ago,'but just before your life-force left your body we were able to transfer it – by the yoga of Phowa? [42] – to another body far away.'

'I cannot remember… cannot remember…' Mr Holmes mumbled and staggered back a few steps as if intoxicated.

'You cannot remember because you were unconscious and on the point of death when the Pho-wa operation was performed and the Aperture of Bhrama [43] opened to release the sacred bird. That is why we could not direct the principle of consciousness after its release and had to trust in the power of the Three Jewels to guide it to a habitable body. [44] It was the best we could do at the time.'

It may have been my proximity to death or the great pain I was suffering as I lay prostrate on that cold cavern floor that allowed me to hear this strange tale without feeling any real surprise or incredulity. In fact, in a semi-conscious, dreamy way, I found myself even beginning to agree with it. Mr Holmes a former lama? Why ever not? He was celibate, of noble mien and great wisdom. In accordance with the Mahayanic precepts of altruism and compassion he had devoted his life to aiding the weak, the poor and the helpless against the powers of evil. He fasted regularly to clear the vital channels and bring about clarity of insight; and he had powers of concentration that would make many a practising yogi look like a rank novice. Never was an incarnate lama truer, or more deserving of his monastic robe and cap of office, than my dear friend.

Fresh spasms of burning pain racked my body, and for some moments I lost consciousness. When I recovered I was greeted with the offensive sound of Moriarty's chuckling.

'So, Gangsar, my pious, do-good classmate. You survived after all. Strange are the ways of karma, are they not? My two greatest enemies are actually the same person. Which is very convenient, when you think about it. One does not necessarily have to go to the blood-thirsty extent of the Emperor Caligula, when he wished that all Rome had just one neck, to appreciate the need for economy of action in these things. But we must see to the Grand Lama first. You will have to wait for your turn Holmes, or Gangsar, whatever you may wish to be called.'

'Holmes will do for the present,' said my friend in a clear strong voice, standing tall and erect, his arms akimbo, 'and you will not harm the boy.'

Though at death's door, I nearly cheered at this revival of Sherlock Holmes's strength. Indeed, his sharp eyes flashed like gemstones and all the outstanding aspects of his physiognomy: his fierce hawk-like nose, his determined chin, and his noble brow, seemed even more prominent and revealing of the greatness of the man. It was as if he had undergone transfiguration.

'Hah! Do I detect a note of defiance? Foolish. Foolish,' jeered Moriarty, shaking his long forefinger as if admonishing a child. 'Do you think that just because you have recovered your memory and some of your old occult powers, you can stand up to me? Have you forgotten the Great Stone of Power? Not even the combined strength of the College of the Occult Sciences, and all the Grand Masters, living and dead, could withstand its immense power. So how do you think you can stop me? It is beyond your capability to resist even an iota of its energy. Try!'

A ripple of movement flowed out of his eyes and, striking the stone, emerged as a kind of invisible wave of destructive energy that shot out towards Holmes and the two Lamas. Sherlock Holmes raised his hands and – as if he had been doing it all his life (which, in a manner of speaking, he probably had) – moved his fingers in a strange manner to form tantric gestures (Skt. mudra). Immediately, a barely visible barrier, a kind of curtain of shimmering energy, seemed to form before them. The force wave smashed into the psychic shield with the noise of a thunderclap. Holmes and the two Lamas were thrown to the ground; but they gradually rose to their feet, and it was apparent that, though shaken, they were happily unharmed.

'Good, Holmes, good,' crowed Moriarty, 'but not quite good enough, if you will forgive me the remark. You have obviously not applied yourself with sufficient diligence to the teachings of our old Master. The little finger should have unfolded like the petals of the Utpala [45] flower after the first rain, not hung hesitantly like a eunuch's lingam. So shall we try again?'

Again and again Moriarty attacked with the awesome power of the Stone, and again and again Sherlock Holmes threw up his psychic shield to protect the lamas and himself from annihilation. But it was tragically obvious that Moriarty was toying with Holmes and was – as he himself had earlier declared – using only a fraction of his power. Standing tall and erect, shining with vitality, he casually directed the murderous waves of energy at a rapidly weakening Sherlock Holmes.

Tears filled my eyes at the realisation that my noble friend was doomed, and with him the Grand Lama and the Lama Yonten; and then, of course, Thibet, that fascinating country to whose study I had devoted these many years of my life. Was it all to end in this manner? With myself lying useless and dying on the floor of this cold cavern, while Moriarty strutted about, brave as a cock on his own dung-hill, crowing his cock-a-doodle-doo of victory. It was hateful – intolerable. But what could I do? I could not even move. Or could I?'

Gritting my teeth I tried. I discovered that my entire body was useless and had no feelings nor functions, except for the right arm, which had retained some of its vitality – at least for the moment. Clawing the icy floor with my right hand I managed to slowly and painfully drag myself forward.

Moriarty had his back to me and was slowly advancing on Mr Holmes and the two Lamas, who were being flung further backwards in disarray after every shattering blow of the Power Stone. Oh, for my revolver! A weapon – anything. I looked about the cavern floor but could see nothing. Only my trusty old umbrella lay on the ice a littie away from me, where it must have fallen after I had been struck by the fire-ball. Moriarty now paused for a moment in his advance to make some more sneering, facetious remarks, that he obviously regarded as hilariously funny.

'Have you now had enough finger exercises, Holmes? I should really hope so, for I intend to make our next lesson a more difficult one. Now what shall it be? Ah! I have it. You'll love this one Holmes. In fact it'll warm the cockles of your heart. Ha. Ha. Ha.' As the cavern dome echoed once again with his laughter, a jet of multi-coloured fire shot forth from the Stone. 'Hell-fire, Holmes! Hell-fire! Ha. Ha.'

Only just in time Sherlock Holmes managed to make some occult gestures and raised his psychic shield before the flames struck – and engulfed it. For a moment I thought with despair that they had been consumed by the blaze. But then, through the raging flames, I was able to see that Mr Holmes and the lamas were safely ensconced within a dome of energy, and safe – at least for the present – while all round them raged this magical conflagration.

Gritting my teeth I managed to drag myself to where my umbrella lay – and secured it. What I was going to do with it I did not know, but I grimly dragged myself towards Moriarty. On reflection, I can really provide no explanation how my shattered, near lifeless body managed not to just give up and expire altogether, much less move forward in this fashion. It may have been the overriding hatred I felt for this evil, sneering blackguard, or even the great love and concern I felt for my companions, that provided me with the necessary inspiration and reserve of strength to go on.

Now, as I neared my nemesis, the fire increased in malevolent vigour and began to take on a demoniacal life of its own. Strange hellish creatures: imps, monsters, demons and witches flitted and danced about the flames, sniggering, cackling and screaming at my friends within their perilously vulnerable haven.

I struggled forward until I was just behind Moriarty. But then I realised that I had, all along, just been deceiving myself. There was no earthly possibility that I could raise myself to my feet and knock the villain smartly behind the head with my umbrella, as I had vaguely planned to do. It was a miracle in itself that I had managed to just drag myself up to this point using only my one fit arm. Tears of impotent rage and frustration coursed down my cheeks and dropped on the icy floor. Through my misted eyes I now saw my friends in their final death-struggle.

The flames had greatly increased in energy. Sherlock Holmes, exhausted and beaten, was now down on both knees, his left hand resting on the ground, supporting his spent body. But that unconquerable, valiant soul still managed to hold his right hand high, the fingers still forming the mudra of protection (Skt. raks mudra).

The hellish creatures were beside themselves with rage and anticipation of victory. Three grimacing imps jumped violently up and down on the energy dome. A black satanic creature with flaming eyes attacked its surface with a fierytrident, trying to prise it open like a tin of bully beef. A coven of witches tore at the sides with their sharp claws, screaming and cackling in gleeful expectation – as the dome visibly weakened under their combined attack. There were many other such foul creatures in this ferocious assault, but it was not possible to see everything clearly in the hellish confusion and raging flames.

The dark figure of Moriarty seemed to grow taller, more sinister and satanic as he prepared to deliver his death blow. 'Well, Holmes,' he shouted gleefully above the roar of the flames and the screaming of his filthy minions. 'I trust that age hath not withered nor custom staled my infinite variety. This is just a foretaste of where I am going to consign you and your friends – forever.'

He stepped back a pace to prepare his stroke – and stepped right on my extended hand. I nearly yelled with the pain, but fortunately managed to swallow the hurt and remain still. Then a strange feeling overcame me, and I beheld the finger of God in this littie incident.

'Goodbye, Holmes, everybody. Forever!'

Moriarty stepped forward. I clenched the end of my umbrella firmly and, whipping it forward, hooked the curved handle around his right ankle. Then, summoning the last remaining reserve of strength in my body, I pulled. For a moment Moriarty staggered backwards but then the fiill force of my pull caused his legs to flip back in the air and his torso to tumble forward. His arms instinctively extended forwards to break his fall – and he inadvertently released his hold on the Stone of Power.

The Great Stone of Power, propelled by the impetus of Moriarty's fall, sailed slowly through the air, glittering like the reflection of a full moon on the broken surface of a surging river – straight past the demonic creatures and the conflagration, through the collapsing wall of the psychic dome – and plump into Sherlock Holmes's hands.

As Moriarty scrambled up from the floor, he visibly began to diminish and distort, till soon he was the old, ugly, crooked, bent, scarred, and lame bounder that we had known before. He looked about him confusedly but when he saw Mr Holmes coolly holding the Power Stone, his eyes opened wide with alarm. The alarm was justified, for the infernal fire and the hellish creatures around Holmes now turned their attention to Moriarty and suddenly surged towards him.

'No! No!' he wailed in terror, but they smashed headlong into him. For a brief moment Moriarty burned – and in seconds was only bones. These disintegrated, leaving a puff of smoke and fire which sped away with the other flames and creatures into the distance, and disappeared.

'NOOOOOOoooooopoooooooo…' the echoes of Moriarty's last desperate wail finally receded, and there was silence, and, at last, peace.

Sherlock Holmes walked slowly over to the monolith and replaced the stone. Then he quickly came over to where I lay on the floor, now at peace with myself, and reconciled to stepping onto another stage on the Wheel of Life. Kneeling beside me he inspected my wound anxiously. The Lama Yonten and the Grand Lama crouched beside him, their eyes filled with solicitude.

'I trust that my services have proved satisfactory, Sir?' I managed to whisper, my lips now experiencing the icy chill that had gripped the rest of my body.

'More, much more than satisfactory, my friend.' Mr Holmes's clear, hard eyes were dimmed, and his firm lips were shaking. 'Do not give up hope yet. There is a chance…'

'No, Mr Holmes,' I interrupted. 'There is no time. I only ask you to give a fiill report of my service to Colonel Creighton. Also, if it would not be too much trouble, could you please scatter my ashes over the river Ganges. I am a scientific man but… but one cannot be too sure about everything. Now farewell, good Sirs.'

'There must be something we can do,' said Holmes in a despairing voice that wrung my heart.

'Perhaps there is…' said the Lama Yonten hesitantly, '… beyond the portals of the mandala. But how…'

'Of course,' cried Holmes, snapping his fingers. 'I remember the tale. We can but try. Come, Your Holiness. Only you can save our friend now.'

He led the Grand Lama by the hand to the stone platform. The lad seated himself, in fiill lotus position, before the Stone of Power, and closed his eyes in meditation. Sherlock Holmes crouched beside him and whispered into his ear. Whatever Mr Holmes was attempting, I knew that it would be too late, for I was fast slipping into unconsciousness. My vision began to blur until everything took on a far-away, dream-like quality; so much so that it is with much hesitation, and indeed against all my training as a scientific observer and recorder, that I now set down on paper what I beheld – or imagined I beheld – subsequently. I lay no claims of truth on the matter. Perhaps it was a hallucination. Let the reader take it as he will.

My fading vision was somehow compelled towards the Great Stone of Power, whose luminosity now strangely seemed to be the only thing of substance or reality around me. The light of the Stone gradually changed, becoming darker, but no less luminous. This wonderful phenomenon increased, until I realised that I was peering into some kind of dark, radiant opening. The black hole gradually increased in size until it filled the entire cavern – and then beyond it. Lying on my back and looking up I seemed to behold an endless and wonderful night sky, unlimited by any horizons, or the usual restrictions dictated by the limitations of the human eye.

This immense space was not static, but churned, nay, seethed with energy and movement, like gigantic whirlpools and waterspouts in a storm-tossed sea. The centre of this oceanic space seemed to tear open, giving birth to another vortex that gradually filled the previous space. Seven times it happened in all, till seven endless vortices, one within the other, stretched out millions upon millions of miles to whatever eternity lay in this universe of God's creation.

Then from the centre of the ultimate vortex emerged a small point of light, that, moving forward, gradually grew in size, till it was possible to appoint a definite shape to it. It seemed like a distant mountain, floating by itself-like Mount Kinchenjoonga seen from Darjeeling, that often floats serenely above a sea of monsoon clouds; or like Mr Jonathan Swift's 'Flying Island of Laputa'. The edges of this mountain-like shape glowed with a ring of fire, while its surface glittered with multi-coloured points of light.

As it came lower I could see that the shape was actually a kind of city – a celestial city, with soaring towers and marvellous palaces piled, en echelon, on each other like a Thibetan monastery – indeed like the Potala – but infinitely larger and higher. Millions of points of light flashed from every part of this city, while the many spires and curved pagoda roofs gleamed like molten gold. The city rested on a colossal circular platform many, many miles in diameter surrounded by rings of multicoloured fire that seemed to provide it with its vital source of levitational and motive power.

Of course. A Mandala).

A roar like that of a thousand giant Thibetan trumpets reverberated through the air as it slowly descended, burning so brightly with flashing, moving lights that my senses failed me for sometime. Then I felt myself rising towards the lights, which, strangely enough, did not discomfort me in spite of their awesome brilliance and energy. Then the brilliance changed to a comfortable glow like that of a well-lit room, and I imagined figures moving around me. I may have dreamt it for the figures, though vaguely human, were enormous – at least ten feet tall and clad in strange suits of iridescent armour, and grim helmets crested with nodding plumes of fire. Of course, the statues in the cavern! That's why I was dreaming all this. One of the figures walked silently over to my side and bent down. His face was that of a warrior, noble and stern, but he smiled kindly at me and put his hand on my eyes. I slept.

I dreamed I was lying on a high altar surrounded by faceless, white robed priests, who cut my body open with shining knives of Kght, and poured liquid fire inside me. But I felt no pain and I slept again.

23 His Last Bow

I opened my eyes to see larks flyinghigh above in a clear blue summer's sky.

I 'Ah, Hurree. You are awake,' Sherlock Holmes's reassuring voice came from dose beside me. He was sitting near where I lay on the grassy slope of a sun-drenched hillside, smoking his pipe contentedly. I was confused, but strangely did not care very much. I just felt wonderful to be alive. I touched my chest. There was no wound there – not the least trace. Had it all been but a dream? As I pressed my right hand on my chest I felt a twinge of pain in the hand – where a foot had trodden on it.

'Moriarty!'

'He has passed on to another existence, Hurree. Do you not remember how you tripped him up when he was preparing to deliver his coup de grace? If they had such a thing as a public museum in this country, that's where your umbrella ought to be.'

Hearing our voices, the Grand Lama, the Lama Yonten, Tsering and Kintup now came up the hill from a small campsite just below. The Grand Lama came and draped a white silk scarf around my neck to thank me for saving his life. The Lama Yonten, looking none the worse for his ordeal, took my hand warmly and shook it again and again. Tsering and Kintup were very happy to see me up and alive, though ever after they stood in great awe of me, most certainly from hearing an exaggerated account of my feats in the cavern from an excited Lama Yonten, who had blown the story totally out of proportion in the recounting. All my efforts to set the record straight proved futile, even detrimental, since the two fellows attributed my protests to what they considered my natural modesty, and added it to their list of my virtues.

We were camped on a hillside some miles away from the glacier, which was visible to the north. The entrance to the temple was once again firmly buried under the ice, awaiting the advent of the next Grand Lama. One side of our campsite was taken up by our prisoners – thirty-odd Chinese soldiers huddled miserably together. The Grand Lama's guards, under the inspired leadership of our valiant Tsering, had not only succeeded in blunting the attack of the Chinese soldiers at the ice bridge, but subsequently, taking the initiative, had led a charge and routed them completely.

The next day we started on our journey back to Lhassa. On our way I questioned Sherlock Holmes about the extraordinary events in the cavern, and attempted to elicit some kind of rational explanation for them. He did not reply immediately but rode silently beside me. After lighting his pipe and drawing on it a few times, he turned to me.

'I value your friendship too highly, Hurree, to ever want you to think that I am not being frank with you. I am under a grave oath never to reveal certain secrets to anyone who is not of us -even though he may be a trusted friend and a great benefactor. I have discussed the matter with the Lama Yonten and he agrees that it is perhaps permissible to provide you a general explanation, without divulging specific information, that could be construed as a transgression of the vows of secrecy.'

Even on horseback, Mr Holmes managed to assume the slightly didactic air that he always did when discoursing on a subject.

'The Buddha once said that there were as many worlds and universes in the sphere of existence as there were grains of sand on the shores of the Ganges. Buddhist theologians believe that the "Wheel of the Most Excellent Law" has been turned in many of these worlds by various Buddhas of the three ages, and even by Shakyamuni himself. Many of these worlds are far in advance of ours, one in particular, ruling over a thousand other worlds in its system, is so tremendously ahead of our own insignificant primitive planet in matters of science and spirituality, that it would be impossible to explain its marvels to a modern man, as it would be impossible to explain the working of a steam engine to a savage Andaman Islander. To us, the beings of this world would seem god-like, not only for the unimaginable powers that they possess, but also for their miraculous longevity. But ultimately they are mortal. For as the Buddha has said, "all that is born must die -even the gods in Indra's heaven."

'It is believed that many aeons ago, in their quest for universal truth, these beings discovered "The Law," and since then, have ever sought to protect the Noble Doctrine wherever it may be threatened. They have always watched over our world, and, through a small community of fellow seekers in the remoteness of the Thibetan highlands, they have maintained a bond with humankind.

'You know of the prophecy of the Lamas, that when man succumbs absolutely to greed and ignorance, causing ruin and desolation everywhere on the land, in the sea, and in the very air; and when the forces of darkness with their engines of death and destruction have finally enslaved everyone, then the Lords of Shambala will send their mighty fleets across the universe, and in a great battle, defeat evil and bring about a new age of wisdom and peace.'

'Do you believe in the story, Sir?'

'It is not necessary to subscribe to such a belief to see where man's blind worship of money and power must eventually lead him. When the green and fertile land is destroyed to build dark satanic mills wherein underfed children and consumptive women are made to slave; when artless primitives armed with bows and spears are converted to our ideas of commerce and civilisation through the hot barrels of gatling guns; and when even that sport is now too poor and all the nations of Europe are fast becoming armed camps, waiting to fall on each other – then what can a discerning person really do, save tremble for the future of humanity.

'No, I do not think it would be simple-hearted to give serious consideration to this ancient prophecy, and also to take some solace from its hopeful conclusion. If, Hurree, the night is clear and star-lit, you might even look up at a far away immovable speck of light in the North, from whence may come our salvation.'

The coronation of the Grand Lama, or to be more precise his 'Assumption of Spiritual and Temporal Power', took place exactly a month after our arrival in the city. Moriarty's death had definitely drawn the fangs from Chinese plans in Thibet. Moreover the evidence of the captured Chinese soldiers proved to be too embarrassing even for the Emperor, [46] who hastily recalled the Amban O-erh-'tai to Pekin, and had him summarily beheaded as a stern warning to those who dared to cause misunderstanding betwixt a righteous Emperor of China and his revered chaplain the Grand Lama of Thibet. Without the Amban's support the Regent's power-base crumbled and he was subsequently arrested, tried before the Tsongdu, the National Assembly, and imprisoned for life.

Lhassa city, indeed the entire country, celebrated this joyous event. In the Great Audience Hall of the Potala Palace, before a vast assemblage of ministers, officials of various ranks, incarnate Lamas, abbots of the great monastic universities, and embassies from Nepaul, Sikkhim, Ladakh, Bhootan, China, Turkestan, Mongolia, and some small Indian states, the young Grand Lama was seated on the Lion Throne and presented with the Seven Articles of Royalty and the Eight Auspicious Emblems that confirmed him as Ngawang Lobsang Thupten Gyatso, the All Knowing Presence, in accordance with the precepts of the Buddha, the Ocean of Wisdom, Immutable, Holder of the Thunderbolt, the Glorious Thirteenth in the Glorious Line of Victory and Power, Spiritual and Temporal Ruler of all Thibet.

After this ceremony, to which Mr Holmes and I had been granted special seats, Mr Holmes and I, in another less elaborate but equally dignified ceremony, were presented with special awards for our services. A complete set of monastic robes was bestowed upon Sherlock Holmes, along with a cap of office granting him the rank of Huthoktu, the third highest rank after the Grand Lama's in the lamaist hierarchy. The young Grand Lama himself handed me a rare, fifteenth-century bronze statue of Atisha, the great Buddhist teacher from Bengal. I will remember forever, with reverence and affection, the words that accompanied this great gift.

'For a second time in our history,' said the young ruler, 'Thibet has need to thank a man from the sacred land of Vangala.'

The Grand Lama was no longer the sickly boy we had first met, but a strong and wise leader of his people. It was clear that whatever further obstacles and dangers would emerge during his reign, he would somehow overcome them. [47]

After the coronation festivities, Mr Holmes departed for the Valley of the Full Moon (Dawa Rong) in Southern Thibet, where his small monastery, the White Garuda Dharma Castle, was situated. A large retinue of monks and servitors accompanied him. There, in another ceremony, he was re-installed as the incarnate Lama and abbot of the monastery. He also underwent, for a number of months, a series of meditations, pujas, and initiation ceremonies (Tib. wang-kur) with his teachers.

Being granted a laissez passer throughout Thibet, Kintup and I, with Gaffuru and Jamspel, travelled to the great inland sea of Chang Nam -tso, the highest body of salt water in the world, to study its very unusual tides, and to survey the area around. (See my article, 'Record of Tidal Activities of a Thibetan Sea ', Vol.xxv No.l Jan/Feb, Journal of the Geographical Society of Bengal). We also travelled to many other lakes and conducted a number of geographical and ethnological studies, which it is not necessary to enumerate here. Finally, on receipt of the third of Colonel Creighton's harsh missives demanding my recall, I reluctantly decided that it was no longer feasible, on whatever account, to prolong my stay and studies in the Forbidden Land. Bidding a melancholy adieu to the Grand Lama, the Lama Yonten and Tsering, I departed from Lhassa on the 10th of November, 1892.

I travelled south, following the course of the Bramhaputra river, to the beautiful Valley of the Full Moon, to Mr Holmes's monastery, situated on a picturesque hillside covered with aromatic juniper trees. I stayed with him for a week learning much about… let us just say, many things. He had decided to stay a year more in Thibet to complete his studies. But after that he would return to England [48] to finish his task of destroying Moriarty's criminal empire and removing his baleful influence once and for all from the cities of Europe. Only on the conclusion of this task would he finally return to Thibet.

'I have my orders,' said Holmes, 'and I must obey.' He did not elaborate about who had given those orders, and I did not ask.

The last sight of my dear friend will remain forever vivid in my mind. Attired in wine-red monastic robes, tall and imposing, he stood before a copse of dwarf pines by the monastery gate, accompanied by his disciples, who bowed low when I mounted my pony and rode away. Mr Holmes raised his right hand to bid me farewell and to give me his blessings. I never saw him again.

It has always been a dispiriting thing for me to leave the solitude and purity of the mountains and return to the real world, though this time my unique discoveries ensured that the world would greet me with medals, awards, appointments and all the other trappings of its respect and honour. Yet even in my new life of prosperity and prominence I have never forgotten the wise words of Sherlock Holmes – surely engraved in my heart as if on granite – reminding me of the sorrows and follies of this world, and man's inhumanity to man.

Just yesterday evening, I sent away my private carriage and driver, and walked home from the Great Eastern Hotel after the annual dinner of the Royal Asiatic Society of Bengal, where I had been invited to speak on Himalayan exploration to a group of sleek, well-fed gentlemen and their bored overdressed wives. Outside the hotel, hordes of starving children scrambled for leftover food from the hotel's garbage bins. I distributed what money I had on me amongst them. Then I turned away and walked through the dark back-streets.

It was a clear and moonless night. Once again I found myself looking up north, in the direction of the far Himalayas, at a sky blazing with stars… sic itur a mons ad astra… to paraphrase Virgil…

But enough, I weary the reader with my unrelenting cacoethes scribindi. Let the tale now end.