Tulku

3

THEY TRAVELLED NORTH along the forested foothills, taking the old track that had barely been used since Father had built the bridge. It would have been easier to go east, but that would have taken them to Shiacheng, where the men who had attacked the Settlement must have come from; so the best chance was to make a detour and hope to strike another road to Taho. All the first day Theodore rode, sitting sideways, peasant-fashion, across the rump of his pony, slumped into the trance of shock. He barely noticed where they went, what they ate or how they camped. They met no-one. The woods, the whole of China, the world – they were as empty as his soul.

In the middle of next morning Mrs Jones dragged him out of his stupor to talk to a couple of hunters who spoke a rough version of Miao which he could just understand. They insisted that the best way to Taho was back, through Shiacheng, but agreed that it was possible to travel on north. They seemed to know nothing of any Boxer uprisings, or anything that happened beyond the valleys they hunted. As soon as the talk was over Theodore slid back into numbness. The usual morning rain drizzled on. It took an age to climb each rise and to plod down into the next valley, where the usual stream, steeper and angrier each time, had to be somehow forded.

Around midday the clouds lifted and the rains died. They halted on a rounded upland of grass and stunted scrub, where they fed the horses and then ate their own meal; but barely had they moved off again when Mrs Jones reined in, dismounted and peered at something growing beside the track. Then to Lung’s obvious disgust she opened one of the baskets, brought out a folding stool and some equipment, and settled to painting a little flower, mauve and hairy, which she had found. Lung made a parade of taking the rifle and standing sentry, scowling down the path they had travelled; the horses grazed; and Theodore, somehow unsettled from scurrying round the endlessly repeated maze of his despair, looked around him. East and south the hills were veiled with heat-haze, but west and north a chain of larger hills stood clear. He realized that the landscape had indeed been changing as they travelled, and the seeming steepness and weariness had not simply been products of his own misery. He shrugged, and was about to retreat into the maze when Mrs Jones closed the paint-box with a deliberate snap and pointed.

‘See there? That’s where I’m going, some day.’

Theodore gazed along the line of her arm and saw, through a notch in the hill-range, a glimmer of silver and purple – snow-peaks, clearer each instant as the clouds thinned, a hundred miles away or more, but even at that distance making the hills among which he stood seem like little more than dimples in the earth’s crust.

‘Tibet,’ he said dully. ‘You can’t go there. They don’t let you in.’

‘That’s as may be, young man, but I’m going there before I die. I bet there’s things in them valleys like what nobody’s never seen.’

‘Things?’

‘Plants,’ she said, strapping her kit together. ‘What else do you fancy I’m doing in these heathen parts? I’m a plant-collector, see? One day there’ll be a flower what everybody grows in their garden and it’ll have my name on it. Something-or-other Jonesii. Won’t that be grand?’

She laughed, self-mocking, as Lung helped her into the saddle, but she had been talking with a sudden intensity, enough to draw Theodore’s whole attention. Now, as they rode on across the upland, she continued to chatter away.

‘Mind you, I have got a rose called after me, Daisy Dancer, but it ain’t a proper wild species and it ain’t my real name. I was born Daisy Snuggett, see, but you could hardly put that at the top of a bill, could you? I’m not saying as Daisy Dancer ain’t a pretty little rose, pinky with hundreds of curly petals, though it’s turned out a devil for mildew, I hear . . . oh, I beg your pardon, young man. Does that count?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Theodore. In fact he knew quite well – Satan counted. But Mrs Jones was already chattering on and he had no urge to stop her though often he had little idea what she was talking about. She had made a break in the monotony of his grief, and he was grateful, though without any conscious awareness of gratitude. Only when he knew her better did he guess that she had deliberately chosen the moment, had understood his needs, first for privacy and now for interruption. At one point she tried to involve Lung in the talk, but to Theodore’s surprise he held up a reproving hand, though he smiled with sudden charm as he did so, then reined his pony in and fell behind.

‘Making up one of his poems,’ muttered Mrs Jones. ‘Didn’t I say there’s more to him than what meets the eye?’

After that she gossiped on all day, unwearied as one of the mountain streams.

Two evenings later they waited, half-hidden by a wattle fence that had been built as a shelter for young vines, and watched an old woman hoeing her garden. The flies, which had swarmed and settled and stung all the weary afternoon as they worked their way round through the hill-scrub above the fields, had gone. To the west the sky was palest yellow, streaked with pink along the mountain rims. The thin moon that floated in the darkening edge of night seemed to be nearer than those snow-peaks. Quarter of a mile ahead lay the river, a network of shallows and gravel banks. They knew it could be crossed here because from the hillside they had seen small herds of cattle fording it, and had decided that it was safer to make this circuit than to risk using the bridge in the middle of the town that lay at the head of this sudden fertile valley. The last peasant they had met up in the hills had seemed dangerously sullen. They had discussed concealing Mrs Jones somehow among the baggage and letting Lung and Theodore take the horses through; but even so there would be a good chance that someone would want to see the strangers’ travel papers, and the baggage would be searched, if only for loot. Then they had seen the ford.

‘Ah, get on with it, you old besom,’ whispered Mrs Jones.

She stood as straight as ever, but Theodore could hear the exhaustion in her voice. He himself was ready to lie down and sleep where they stood. The horses could smell the river and were restless with thirst. Beyond the river a good road ran due east, but between them and the river, less than a quarter of a mile away now, lay this last lone cottage, with the old woman hoeing and hoeing. It seemed a pity, now they had come so far without being seen, to let this one person witness their passing. At last she straightened her back and hobbled away. Mrs Jones waited another minute and started down the path. The cottage was in darkness, but just as Theodore came level with its gate a voice spoke from the vine-shrouded porch.

‘A peach-blossom sky—

Men lead horses to the ford . . .’

Even to Theodore, whose sole reading was his Bible, the tone was unmistakable – an old man’s voice, detached and amused, quoting poetry and ending on a note of question. The horse-hooves padded on the soft track for a few paces, then another voice spoke, whispering but clear.

‘A boat-shaped moon—

I fetch rice-wine for a friend.’

Before Theodore had fully grasped that this second voice was Lung’s, a cackle of pleasure rose from the porch.

‘My flagon is already half-empty, Traveller, but anyone who can quote Tu Fu in this wilderness must stay and help me finish it, that we may start on another.’

Lung hesitated. The hoof-sounds of his pony had ceased.

‘Weng,’ he called suddenly in an authoritative voice, ‘run ahead and ask the Captain to wait.’

Theodore dropped Bessie’s reins and trotted down the path. He found Mrs Jones had already halted.

‘What’s the bleeder up to now?’ she muttered. ‘We got to get across while it’s still light enough to see.’

‘He wants us to wait. He’s being careful. He called me Weng and you the Captain. Maybe he’s getting news, or faking a story so the man won’t guess he’s seen foreigners.’

‘Let’s hope,’ she sighed.

They waited for several minutes, listening to the murmur of voices. At last a gate creaked and Lung appeared from the loom of the cottage.

‘Missy, we sleep here this night,’ he whispered.

‘Here! You think we can trust this bloke? What have you done with the horses?’

‘This fellow not a bloke, Missy. He very OK gentleman. He official long time in yamen at Pekin, but not in favour now, so he live here. He say put horses in shed, eat here, sleep here, maybe cross river before sun rise.’

‘Oh, fair enough. I’m that fagged . . . What did you tell him about me?’

‘I say you English Princess.’

‘Oh, Lor! I’m going to have to mind my manners, ain’t I?’

Mrs Jones insisted on seeing that the horses were properly groomed and fed and watered before she would come into the house. She and Theodore did the work while Lung held the lantern and talked to their host, a fat little man with a bald head and a leathery face puckered into a million wrinkles. His name was P’iu-Chun. He needed a crutch to walk, and wore clothes like any peasant’s, but Lung was very respectful to him. He was polite to Lung, if a bit grand, but he watched Mrs Jones all the time with bright-eyed amusement.

As P’iu-Chun led the way into the house at last Lung said in English, ‘Is not custom for woman to eat along by man, but honoured P’iu-Chun say this night forget custom.’

‘That’s very good of him,’ said Mrs Jones in her grandest voice. ‘Tell him that my gratitude for his hospitality is exceeded only by my pleasure at the prospect of his company. Oh, and you might ask if there’s anywhere I can give myself a bit of a wash.’

Mrs Jones’s idea of ‘a bit of a wash’ turned out to be rather more than that. Theodore was sitting on a low stool in P’iu-Chun’s living room and half listening while Lung and the old man discussed a poem by somebody called Li Po, who seemed to have died more than a thousand years ago. He guessed that P’iu-Chun also had only half his mind on the talk, and was fidgety for Mrs Jones’s return. This no doubt was one reason why he was prepared to break with custom – another was that there was only one proper room in the house, so there was nowhere else for her to eat. Theodore had no idea where the old peasant woman had vanished to. The room was not large, but the few pieces of furniture had a look of quality about them; there were two glowing dark blue vases on a chest, and one wall was covered with large brush drawings, hanging on scrolls.

‘Enter!’ called P’iu-Chun suddenly, though Theodore had barely noticed the light scratching on the inner door. At once he found himself wide awake and staring.

Mrs Jones had re-applied her make-up, twice as thick. In the dim lantern-light her face was like a china doll’s – scarlet lips, clay-white skin, a rosy circle on each cheek, black brows over those exaggerated eyes. She had piled her hair high on her head, and put on a long red skirt and a filmy pink blouse whose lace-work frothed up her neck to her chin-line. On each hand she wore several rings over white gloves that ran to her elbows. A triple row of pearls ringed the pink lace, and a large brooch rode on the big curve of her bosom like a boat on a wave.

As she came through the door she drooped, so that for a moment Theodore thought she was fainting until he saw that she was moving into a slow, full curtsey, finishing with her head not six inches from the floor. It was astounding that she could bend her plump body to this posture, but she came up out of it, effortless and smiling.

P’iu-Chun was on his feet and bowing stiffly from the waist, and so was Lung. Theodore, who had risen automatically (Father had always insisted he should stand even for the poorest peasant woman, and had done so himself), copied them awkwardly.

‘Honoured Princess, my poor cottage is yours,’ said P’iu-Chun.

‘The hospitality of the renowned What’s-is-name makes any house a palace,’ fluted Mrs Jones when Lung had translated. ‘Got that out of a panto, when I was principal boy in Aladdin. Don’t put that bit in.’

Deftly Lung added a few courteous twiddles to account for the extra sentence. The exchange might have gone on for some time, but just as P’iu-Chun was bowing himself into a fresh compliment Mrs Jones gave a little cry and ran with fluttering steps towards the pictures on the wall.

‘Why, these are lovely,’ she cried, still in her grand voice but somehow no longer acting. ‘That’s Rhododendron megeratum – I’ve seen that in Nepal . . . and Paeonia lutea – we all grow that now . . . what’s this primula – I’ve never seen that? Lung, ask him where he got these perfectly adorable things, and who painted them.’

‘The Princess is a great lover of plants and admires the drawings,’ said Lung. ‘She names each plant in her own tongue. She asks who painted the pictures.’

‘My own poor hand made these scrawls,’ said P’iu-Chun, purring. Theodore fancied he could see a tear of pleasure in the corner of the dark little eyes. Mrs Jones understood what he was saying before Lung could translate, and once more darted across the room, seized his hand and patted it softly. P’iu-Chun was obviously amazed by this behaviour, but too happy to resist.

‘Oh, it wasn’t you!’ she cried. ‘Oh, how I wish I could draw like that. I have to paint, to make a record of what I’ve found, and I get them accurate – I mean you can see every petal and how it goes – but what I can’t do is that . . . that . . .’

Despairing of words she gestured towards the drawings again with a single sweeping movement that exactly expressed the few flowing strokes with which P’iu-Chun had brought the flowers out of the paper.

‘Theo,’ she said. ‘Be an angel. The saddle-basket with the patched cover, near the top, my sketchbooks. Please bring me the red one with my initials on it . . .’

When Theodore came back he found that P’iu-Chun had fetched more scrolls and was spreading them in turn on the chest, shaking his old head from time to time over one which was not as perfect as he’d hoped.

‘You found it?’ cooed Mrs Jones. ‘Lovely. Now come and help me talk to Mr What’s-is-name – poor Lung’s having trouble keeping up with me. Oh, look at this bamboo! That’s as common as daisies, but look how he’s drawn it just like it mattered as much as this gentian here, which I’ve never seen and I doubt if anyone in Europe has.’

Lung coughed a warning, but P’iu-Chun seemed to take it for granted that the Chinese boy travelling with this extraordinary woman should speak good English. He smiled as Theodore spoke, and reached a long-nailed hand for the sketchbook.

‘You’ll tell him I don’t think they’re very good, won’t you?’ pleaded Mrs Jones. ‘They’re accurate, but they’re not art.’

This was difficult to say in Mandarin without making it sound like another polite expression of humility. P’iu-Chun began to turn the pages, holding the book at arm’s length and straining his neck away.

‘My old eyes no longer see what is near,’ he said. ‘Ah, this detail! The Princess paints the outwardness – every leaf, every hair – while I do my poor best to paint the inwardness. We walk on opposite sides of the way. Now, compare these . . .’

He held the book open at a particular painting and with his other hand pulled from his scrolls his own version of the same plant, a curving, grass-like stem from which dangled a line of little yellow bells. Theodore could see that Mrs Jones had used several different colours and dozens of brush-strokes to paint each bell, wheras P’iu-Chun seemed simply to have dipped a brush in ink and blobbed it once on to the page, and yet the bell was there. You knew how. it would move in the wind. You could even, somehow, guess its colour from the nature of the dark grey blob.

‘If I hadn’t just done my face I’d burst into tears,’ said Mrs Jones gravely. ‘I shall never, never learn to paint like that. I wonder where he found that one – ask him, Theo. It’s got to be in the mountains somewhere, but I’ve only see it one place, right over the other side of the Himalayas.’

‘For much of my life I was a government official in Pekin,’ explained P’iu-Chun. ‘Unworthy though I am, I held posts that were not without honour. But then I fell from favour and was sent to this province with orders to survey the frontier with Tibet and to seek new routes of access, I who had been . . . but never mind that. My report was returned to me with its seal unbroken, to show me how little I was now regarded. I was employed no more. But in my journeyings among the mountains I made these pictures, choosing especially plants that were strange to me. This one I found in vast numbers growing on the ledges of a gorge beyond Tehko. Ah, never again shall I see those peaks, those thundering waters!’

‘Tibet!’ said Mrs Jones. ‘I don’t see as we shouldn’t try and get to Tibet. If Mr What’s-is-name knows the way . . .’

‘We go to Taho,’ said Lung firmly.

‘Tibet’d be just as good.’

‘Taho.’

‘Tibet.’

‘Taho.’

They laughed together, like children playing a secret game. It was so surprising that despite the trance of tiredness Theodore looked at Lung and saw him as a person in his own right, and not just an animated bit of Mrs Jones’s baggage. He showed his teeth as he laughed, and his dark eyes flashed. It was as though a spring of inner happiness had suddenly sparkled on a dull hillside, giving a whole landscape life and focus.

As if the laughter had been a signal the old woman came hobbling in with food – all very plain, boiled vegetables from the garden, dark bread, cheese, water for Theodore and rice wine for the others. Theodore must have fallen asleep in the middle of the meal, because the next thing he was conscious of was waking up and finding that he had been laid on a rough mattress against a wall and covered with a blanket. The meal had been cleared, but the rice-wine flagons were still there, more of them than before. The other three were sitting in a row, on cushions, with Mrs Jones in the middle. The lantern-wick was smoking, and cast a dull, bronze light across their faces. The two men were listening with rapt attention to Mrs Jones, who was singing in a rich, sweet voice:

‘Wotcher, ‘Ria! ‘Ria’s on the job.

Wotcher, ‘Ria! Did you speculate a bob?

O, ’Ria she’s a toff

and she looks immensikoff

And they all shouted Wotcher, ’Rial’

Dazedly Theodore stared at this scene of debauchery, until Mrs Jones noticed him watching them, and winked. He closed his eyes, achingly aware of the huge weight of fatigue that prevented him from rising up and declaring their wickedness. He remembered that he had had a chance to bear witness to his faith, and had run away, so who was he to denounce anyone else? All he could do was pray. His lips moved automatically into the familiar words.

‘Our Father . . .’

He was asleep again before he had whispered a dozen syllables.