Tulku

8

IT TOOK AN agonizing time to strike camp, far longer than when they had been on the march. During the days in the valley they had unpacked more, settled in, grown used to the notion of staying. The horses, too, were out of the habit, troublesome with idleness and perhaps infected with the sudden renewal of tension. Mrs Jones decided to give them an extra feed while they were being loaded.

‘Help keep ’em still,’ she said. ‘And there’s no telling when we’ll next get a chance for a halt. We’ll ride, soon as we’re on the path.’

‘The hoof-prints will show,’ said Theodore.

‘Yes, but if these blokes got any sense they’ll split up, send one lot on ahead and leave the other to hunt through the wood. Last thing we want is to get ourselves cut off while we’re making our way up by rabbit-tracks. Cut a couple of switches, Theo, case you want to make the ponies hurry. You better have the shot-gun, Lung. This is the safety catch, see . . .’

They were ready at last, and led the ponies sidelong up through the wood, striking the path a few hundred yards above the camp-site which the yak-drivers used. Theodore scrambled up on to Bessie’s rump, and she accepted him placidly, just as if he were another piece of baggage. He led the way. Next came Lung, sitting sideways behind Rollo’s pair of baskets, with the shot-gun slung across his back and looking every inch the soldier-poet; last of all Mrs Jones, riding Sir Nigel and leading Albert. They rode steadily down to the lake shore and started up the further slope. The sense of panic flight dwindled, though the urgency remained. Theodore began to make calculations. Say two hours to the bridge – that would be early afternoon. One person with a gun could hold the cliff path, at least while it was daylight, so there would be four hours to cross the bridge. They must start preparing to cross at once, because the path couldn’t be held in the dark, and Mrs Jones would have to be able to see across the gorge to protect Lung with the rifle while he crossed. He would have been holding the path with the shot-gun while she crossed . . . Crossing – you’d have to have a rope round your waist with a loop over the bridge rope . . .

A whooping cry rang through the trees. Theodore looked over his shoulder and saw Albert, loose, walking uncertainly up the path. Beyond him Sir Nigel stood still, with Mrs Jones twisted in the saddle, her gun raised and aiming. And beyond her was movement, barely fifty yards away, men, running. Her gun cracked twice. Albert gave a scream of terror and came bolting up the track, almost knocking Lung off Rollo’s back where the wide-hung baskets crashed against each other. Theodore tried to nudge Bessie across the path but only succeeded in making her pull to one side and open the way for Albert to come tearing through. The gun cracked again just as Theodore brought his switch down hard across Bessie’s haunches. She squealed, more with fright and the infection of Albert’s bolting than with pain. Another shot, louder and deeper, rang out, and something tore through the leafage overhead.

Theodore gave a gulp of fright – he had never thought that the attackers might have a gun – and lashed violently at Bessie’s haunches. There was no need, for by now she was bolting too, wallowing up the path in a bucketing canter, and his saddle – nothing more than a pad of blanket – was slithering away. He clutched at the basket-harness and dragged himself forward till he lay spread-eagled along the hollow of her back with his legs dangling behind the baskets and his arms in front, while Bessie steamed uncontrollably up through the wood. The breath was jolted from his lungs. Tree trunks flickered past. All ideas left his mind.

Slowly the slope took its toll. Bessie’s pace eased as her breath came in slower and louder snorts and he was able to raise his head and peer forward. There was no sign of Albert, but his hoof-prints showed that he had stuck to the path this far at least. Theodore stayed where he was until Bessie slowed to a gasping walk, then he slid to the ground and led her for a while. Another shot echoed through the wood, but far off now, at least half a mile, he thought. No point in waiting. The first thing was for him to get to the bridge and set about making arrangements to cross.

He found Albert about ten minutes later. He had evidently tried to leave the path at a point where its slope became much sharper but had almost at once caught his reins on a broken branch and been too stupid to back off and release them. He was half-exhausted with his fresh bout of panic at being thus trapped, and by the time Theodore had him back on the track he was apparently ready to do what he was told. Theodore tied Bessie’s reins to Albert’s basket-harness and led the pair of them on up the track.

His instinct was to run, but he schooled himself to a steady walk. The bridge filled his mind, so that he could feel in his imagination the weight of his own body trying to tear the rope from his tiring grip. It was no use getting to the bridge exhausted . . . he began to think about hauling the baggage over . . . a length of cord the full width of the gorge . . . no, twice that, so that it could be hauled back again to take the next load, otherwise he’d have to cross and re-cross every time . . . there wasn’t nearly enough. Not enough even for one width, perhaps. Reins, and tent ropes . . . And the tents could be cut into strips and tied . . . it would take hours!

Where the trees ended with the typical abruptness of mountain scenery, the path zigzagged up a couple of hundred feet and then eased to a far gentler angle as it slanted up towards the narrows of the gorge. Here he rode Bessie again, letting her pick her way along but keeping her moving at a fast walk. All three ponies had turned out to be sure-footed, and Albert’s temper even improved a little when he had a plummeting drop below him, so they crept with agonizing slowness across the great bare sweep. For a long while there was no sign or sound from the wood, and Theodore was almost two thirds of the way across when a figure emerged from the trees – Lung, still on horseback.

Theodore waved, waited for Lung’s answering gesture and decided that it was encouraging, so rode on. The last he saw as he dismounted for the final slope up to the cliff ledge was Lung halted about a hundred yards from the trees and Mrs Jones coming trotting out into the open. He sighed with relief and led the horses into the gorge.

Albert was fidgety again, troubled by the erratic gusts of wind and the ceaseless rumble of the river. His reaction to height was to walk on the extreme outer edge of the ledge, as though he were more frightened of the cliff above falling on him than of himself tumbling into the gorge. Theodore’s palms were sweaty once more with the prospect of the coming climb. He would tie the horses, then make himself a waist-loop, and then set about manufacturing the travelling rope. He kept his eyes on the path, gathering his moral energies for the next effort. Not far now. There was the clump of pink daisies which Lung had picked from to show Mrs Jones. Round this next buttress of rock he would see the bridge . . .

It was still there, but the curve of it was clean no more. It was swaying, and a loop of cord dangled below. There were men on the far platform, watching . . . A few more paces and he saw that the rope dipped to a heavy bundle which hung from a yoke-shaped wooden runner, made to slide along the top of the rope. And there were four men on the near platform, too, hauling at another rope to drag the bundle over. These were Tibetans, like the yak-drivers, wearing fur caps and knee-length loose coats tied at the waist with a great sash. None of them paid any attention as Theodore led his horses on to the platform.

He hesitated a moment, then crossed and spoke to the hindmost man, slowly and clearly in Mandarin.

‘Can you help us please? We are being attacked by bandits and must cross the river.’

The man looked at him, one quick stare, and returned to the rhythm of hauling. Theodore tried Miao, and then assembled his smattering of Cantonese into a sort of sentence. The man didn’t even glance at him now. In desperation he tried English, but the man only grunted, and that might have been because of the extra effort of dragging the load up the last steep section of curve. He and his neighbour took the strain as soon as the bundle was over the platform, while the other two unlashed it and lowered it to the ground.

The moment the weight was off, Theodore stepped forward and put his hand on the rope, as if laying claim to it. The men stared furiously at him. One of them spoke in Tibetan, and the nearest man snatched Theodore’s arm off the rope, gripped him by the shoulder and flung him back against the rock wall. Somebody hallooed to the party on the far platform, and by the time Theodore got to his feet the wooden traveller was already sliding back along the rope. A man led the horses up to him and made signs that he was to hold them and stand clear; this man’s face was a dark scowl of anger and disapproval, and he finished his gestures by patting the large dagger in his sash several times.

The men were strangely silent, not at all like workmen chatting over a routine task, but almost more like worshippers engaged in a ritual. The rhythmic movement of paying out the cord ceased, and there was a long pause, but their bodies blocked his view of the far platform, preventing him from watching whether there was any special trick of attaching bundles to the traveller. At last a yodelled shout floated across the gap and the men went to their positions and began to pull the cord in, using no force yet because the load was still sliding down the further curve. Before it dipped from sight below the rim of the platform Theodore saw that this was not a bundle but a man sitting bolt upright in a chair.

Now the men began to heave, working against steadily increasing gravity and friction. Where was Lung – he should be here by now, surely? – he might know a few words of Tibetan. Or Mrs Jones might use her strength of character, to make the men understand the urgency . . . there was no sound along the path, no sign of either. Now the chair came into sight and Theodore could see that the man sitting in it was different from the others, elderly, with a many-wrinkled face of a yellower tinge than the bronze of the men working the ropes. He wore a pointed dark red cap with flaps to cover his ears, and a heavy robe of reddish brown, which flapped around his feet in the gusting wind. His eyes were closed, but obviously not from fear of the drop. In fact he looked as if he were asleep, sitting still as an idol in the swaying chair.

Again two men took the strain while the other two unfastened the chair and lowered it on to the platform. The newcomer rose, opened his eyes and intoned a few words. The men looked pleased. He was nearly a head taller than they were.

‘Honoured sir,’ called Theodore in Mandarin. ‘Can you help us? We are being attacked by bandits and must cross the river.’

The men who had pulled the rope glanced angrily at him and made shushing gestures, but the newcomer turned and gazed at Theodore with strange, vague eyes, as though he were seeing him through layers of mist.

‘I am on a holy search,’ he said. ‘Let none distract me from my path.’

His voice was clear and deep and he spoke good Mandarin, apart from a metallic twang at the end of many syllables.

‘But, honoured sir,’ pleaded Theodore, ‘could your men show us how to cross the river? Many men are attacking us, and we are only three.’

‘Three?’

The newcomer spoke as though the number were much more interesting than the idea of bandits. His gaze sharpened, and he moved towards Theodore with gliding paces that made it seem as though he were floating above the rock surface. A hand drifted from his robes and plucked at something in Theodore’s breast pocket, then drifted away again, holding the folded piece of paper on which Theodore had been drawing that morning. Another hand – they seemed to be moving of their own will, almost unconnected with the mind behind the quiet, distant gaze – helped unfold the paper. The eyes studied it. The hands refolded it and put it back in Theodore’s pocket.

‘What is your age?’

‘Thirteen, honoured sir.’

‘And your companions?’

‘Mrs Jones is about forty. Lung is over twenty.’

‘A Chinese?’

‘Yes.’

‘You wear Chinese dress and hair, but you are not Chinese.’

‘I am American, sir.’

‘Your name?’

‘Theodore. It means Gift of God.’

Theodore had no idea why, at this moment of desperation, he should feel compelled to utter these unnecessary syllables, but the old man’s gaze which for a while seemed to have been dying back into distance now steadied and returned. He muttered to himself in Tibetan and then, suddenly as sunburst through clouds, smiled and became an ordinary person. It was as though his soul had swooped down from heights where it had been hovering and now stood in his body beside Theodore on the rock platform.

‘I am confused,’ he said. ‘My name is the Lama Amchi. I follow certain signs, some of which you bear but not others. I must enquire further.’

‘Honoured sir, there is no time. We are being attacked by bandits. If you help us across the gorge . . .’

‘I must not go back till I am sure. But I travel well protected, so that I may have a suitable retinue for the one I seek.’

He turned and spoke in Tibetan to his followers, one of whom shouted across the gorge and made urgent signs; the others opened one of the bundles on the platform and brought out a number of savage-looking daggers and a couple of elderly rifles. The men on the far side began to cross the bridge, but Theodore was only aware that they were doing so when the first dropped grinning on to the platform. He moved to where he could see the traveller being rapidly twitched back over the gap. As soon as it was within reach another man leaped for it, twisted and swung his legs up over the rope. With nothing else to hold him but his hands gripping the traveller on either side he walked himself across, monkey-fashion. Theodore felt cold in the pit of his stomach.

‘Tie your horses,’ said the Lama Amchi. ‘We will go and investigate your predicament a little further. The thought comes to me that in itself it is perhaps a sign.’

He spoke softly and kindly, as though a confrontation with the savage tribesmen from the forest were a problem such as a scholar might meet in his books.

They found Lung waiting with his back towards them at the point where the cliff began to tilt from the vertical and became an immensely steep slope. Rollo had lost his baskets, and was standing on the path with his head bowed, snorting at the thin air for breath. Lung seemed to hear or sense the newcomers and swung round with the shot-gun rising to his shoulder. Theodore, half-hidden from Lung by the Lama Amchi, scrambled a little up the slope.

‘These are friends,’ he called in Mandarin. ‘They have come to help us.’

Lung lowered his gun, stared in astonishment at the Lama Amchi, and bowed deeply.

‘Revered and honoured Sir,’ he said in Mandarin. ‘We are peaceful travellers but we are attacked by violent men. Pray condescend to make room for us under the umbrella of your benign protection.’

The Lama Amchi didn’t answer, but strode past him and Rollo and on down the path. A shot snapped through the whistling air.

‘Who is this? What does he want?’ whispered Lung as Theodore reached him.

‘I don’t know. Something about a search, and signs, but I think he’ll help us cross the bridge.’

With the jostling escort they followed the Lama Amchi down until he halted where a small ridge made a level and they could all crowd round to watch the scene below. About two hundred yards down the slope Mrs Jones was sitting on Sir Nigel’s back, facing the woods with her gun half raised. For a moment the rest of the drear expanse seemed empty, and then, a hundred yards beyond her, Theodore noticed a movement, and another further to the left, and another beyond that. The attackers had spread themselves into a wide curve and were creeping up the hill towards her, using what cover they could from tussock and outcrop.

Lung put his hand to his mouth and gave a shrill yell. Mrs Jones twisted in the saddle, stared for a moment, then waved an arm, nudged Sir Nigel round and came cantering up the path. The horse’s huge lungs laboured and his ears were flat on his head. Twice he almost fell, but Mrs Jones somehow hauled him up and kept him going. Behind her the attackers rose to their feet and came trotting up the hill, some of them waving weapons. Theodore hadn’t realized there were so many of them – more than twenty, he thought.

‘These are not here for vengeance,’ muttered Lung. ‘Some are from other tribes. Look at their dress. They are here for loot, mere bandits, brought by chatter of gold.’

Mrs Jones at last let Sir Nigel slow to an exhausted walk.

‘What’s up?’ she called.

‘Holy Lama on search,’ called Lung in English. ‘Maybe help. Missy cover face, please.’

She had been riding with her veil thrown back, no doubt for better shooting. Obediently she twitched it into place as she brought Sir Nigel round once more so that she could face down the slope. The attackers came on steadily, but as the slope tilted they bunched towards the path, so that by the time they were fifty yards away they were trotting up in a ragged file, silent, panting, but still tireless.

‘That’s close enough,’ said Mrs Jones. ‘I’ll stop ’em there.’

She was raising her rifle as she spoke. The men on the path jostled to a halt.

‘Do no violence,’ said the Lama Amchi. ‘I will speak with these foolish people.’

‘Missy, holy Lama say no shoot,’ called Lung.

‘I might have to,’ she said. ‘I been aiming to miss so far, but . . . Hey! Stop him, somebody. Oh, why didn’t one of you stop the old goat?’

It was too late. The Lama Amchi was striding down the path with the confident long pace of a man used to steep places. His followers whispered uneasily but stayed where they were. A bolt clicked.

The attackers closed to a tight cluster and waited to meet the old man. He halted a few feet away from them and spoke, too far off now for Theodore to hear words, or even language.

‘I can’t pick the beggar out,’ cried Mrs Jones. ‘Shout to him to watch out, Lung.’

Even as she was speaking Theodore saw metal glimmer, shoulder high, somewhere near the middle of the bunch, a pistol barrel. He couldn’t tell whose hand was holding it, but in the thin air and slowed time of helpless watching he saw the clumsy flintlock hover over the pan. The Lama’s robe flapped violently in a sudden gust, so that for a moment the old man seemed to waver, to separate into two images at the instant when the shot cracked and the dark smoke puffed among the faces. On the ridge there was one quick gasp of horror, followed by a wild yell as the Lama’s escort broke into a charging rush down the hill, waving their weapons and leaping from tussock to tussock, screaming like animals. The Lama stood still, apparently unharmed, but in front of him the bunch of bandits broke and ran streaming down the path, jostling and stumbling, though they must have outnumbered the attackers two to one.

‘Missed at that range!’ said Mrs Jones. ‘Thank Heavens!’

‘Lama make himself two men,’ whispered Lung. ‘Missy no see?’

‘I saw a bit of rotten awful shooting,’ snapped Mrs Jones. ‘Now I suppose we better try and make a good impression on His Reverence.’

The Lama Amchi had stood unmoving while his escort charged past him, then turned and come striding up the hill. He looked neither sad nor exhilarated as he approached. Beyond him the escort had caught up with the hindmost bandits and were hewing at them as they ran. The bandits made no attempt to turn and protect themselves. Already two bodies lay on the hillside.

Mrs Jones slid gracefully from the saddle and gave a little curtsey, but the Lama turned to Theodore.

‘These are your companions, child?’ he said in his twanging Mandarin.

Theodore made formal introductions.

The priest gazed for a while at Lung, who faced him uneasily and seemed relieved when the old man turned away. Mrs Jones stood her ground until the creased, blue-veined hand rose as if to pluck her veil; then she backed politely away, raising the veil as she did so, and stood answering his gaze with her own. The sounds of the valley – the hiss of the wind, the growl of the river in its gorge, the cries of fighting men down across the slope – all dimmed, became almost part of some other scene as the world closed in to make a sphere of calm around the group by the path. Intangible energies flowed, as if round the twin poles of a magnet, creating and maintaining this sphere until, like duellists or dancers at the end of an encounter, Mrs Jones and the Lama bowed their heads to each other and turned away.

‘Now we will return to the bridge and prepare to cross,’ said the Lama.