The Cloud Maker (2010) (9 page)

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Authors: Patrick Woodhead

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BOOK: The Cloud Maker (2010)
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The picture showed eight snow-capped mountains forming in a perfect circle, and at its centre another mountain shaped like a pyramid. The artistry of the original work must have been spectacular. The detail was meticulous, every inch crowded with finely inked images and complex symbols.
In the centre, at the very summit of the pyramid, a priest was depicted, staring out from the page with the otherworldly detachment of someone deep in meditation. In his open hand was a symbol: a circle with eight points merging into a central triangle.
‘It’s called a
thangKa
,’ Jack continued. ‘They were originally teaching scrolls, drawn by Tibetan Buddhist monks and passed on from monastery to monastery. And I found your pyramid mountain when I was looking though the
Mahayana Sutras
.’
‘The what?’
‘It’s a philosophical doctrine adopted by a certain sect of Buddhists. I was put on to it by one of the lecturers here in Cambridge, but they said the real people to talk to were from the Asian Studies Department.’
Luca’s voice rose in pitch. ‘But that pyramid is exactly what I saw from Makulu. This proves that the mountain actually exists!’
Jack laughed. ‘As a scholar, I can assure you that it doesn’t
prove
anything. You’ll need to find a few other corroborating sources before you can claim that.’
‘But Bailey’s book in the library,’ said Luca excitedly, his eyes falling on the photocopies stacked by his bed, ‘it mentioned that the pyramid mountain was in one of these
beyuls
.’
‘Again, that’s anecdotal. But you’re right, it is beginning to get interesting. Listen to what I discovered in the
Sutra
s.’ Jack paused, trying to find the right place in his notes. ‘So, according to this, the ring of mountains is supposed to depict the eight-fold path of a lotus flower. And then, right in the centre, is this mythical kingdom.’ He paused again as he tried to decipher his own spidery handwriting. ‘It’s called
Shambhala
.’
‘A mythical kingdom?’
‘Apparently so. It’s a place where the Lamas have moved on to some kind of higher spiritual plane. You know, total enlightenment and all that.’
Jack reached out one shaking hand and picked up his mug of coffee. Kingdoms of total enlightenment – Jesus, he could do with a bit of that around here.
‘What do you think this means?’ asked Luca.
‘Like I said, it might not be anything more than coincidence, but I thought it would give you a bit of a boost. I know how you get when you come back from a trip.’
Luca traced his fingers over the picture, his eyes fixed on the focal point. A ring of mountains with a pyramid at the centre . . . It just seemed incredible.
‘Thanks, Jack. That’s the best news I’ve had all day.’
‘Pleasure. And, in the meantime, I’ll send you this
Mahayana
book and you can read up about it for yourself. If you are serious about finding out some more, then I’ll make a few more enquiries and see if I can’t arrange a meeting or two.’
Putting the phone down, Luca walked over to his bedside table and fished out the folded satellite map. With a handful of drawing pins and a thick black marker pen in his left hand, he unfolded it and pinned it up on the patch of wallpaper at the end of his bed. He then wrote a single word in the bottom right hand corner.
BEYUL?
Chapter 12
His face was old as only a Tibetan face can be.
Lines cross-hatched their way across its leathery surface, like a paper bag that had been crumpled into a ball and hastily smoothed out. His dark brown eyes were set deep in their sockets, staring out from beneath long, straggling eyebrows. Around his body were wrapped thick red robes, but years of exposure to dirt and sunlight had faded them to almost the same colour as the ground.
The old monk sat on a pile of earth a few hundred yards from the entrance to Menkom village, but rarely turned from his vigil to look back at the thatched houses. Although a few thin wisps of smoke still trailed out from the chimneys into the cobalt sky, the village was almost completely still. It had been ravaged by disease for over a month, ever since the traders had come.
The first to fall ill were the old men, disappearing from their usual place by the side of the road. Then it spread: to young children, women, and finally the men working out in the fields. In just a few weeks, the once lively village had become ghostly and withdrawn.
Most people remained indoors, lying fever-ridden on the wooden floors of their homes, while outside cattle ambled through the streets untended. Small, black pigs poked their noses through piles of rubbish in the stream and chickens nested in the thatch rooftops. No stones were thrown at them, no voice raised to scare them away.
As the old monk watched, something distant on the pathway seemed to move then became stationary again. He got slowly to his feet, leaving his prayer wheel lying at his side, and squinted down on to the bare earth slopes of the lower valleys. Haloed by the late afternoon sun, he could just see a small cloud of dust hovering above a black shape. It was hazy, little more than a smudge merging into the horizon.
Gradually, the shape began to separate into its component parts: first, the outline of a yak’s great arching horns, then came the silhouettes of people following behind. Through the dust came a second yak, then another, until he could see an entire caravan of men and beasts toiling up the valley at a steady pace.
It was them. It had to be.
Finally the first of the yaks drew level with him, the heavy brass bell around its neck clanking with each step. Its huge flanks were dread locked with dust and dried mud, and on the arch of its withers heavy saddlebags were roped tight. As the mighty beast snorted, long strands of saliva oozed from its nose, beading with the dust from the pathway.
From somewhere near the back of the line, a voice called out above the noise. Amidst a ragged cacophony of bells the row of animals came to a juddering halt. With clothes stained grey from travel, a figure slipped off the back of one of the yaks and approached the monk. As she pulled away a filthy cloth from her face, the monk found himself looking at the dark suntanned cheeks and green eyes of a young woman clearly exhausted from her journey.
‘
Tashi delek
, venerable father,’ she said, bowing her head to reveal long, black hair that was matted with dust. ‘We are looking for the gatekeeper.’
The old monk nodded, an unaccustomed smile creasing his face even further.
‘
Tashi delek
,’ he replied, in a voice hoarse from disuse. ‘I am he.’
With that he reached forward, clasping her hands in his and bringing them towards his heart. ‘I did not expect to see you until the solstice. But it is wonderful indeed that you have arrived safely. Our guide is ready to escort you when you have gathered your strength. He is a climber from your own country and has been looking forward to meeting you for many weeks now.’
The young woman smiled briefly in thanks before grasping the monk’s hands tighter. ‘Sir, I know you have not yet been informed of this, but there is someone I need to take with me.’
The monk’s expression clouded over and he began shaking his head before she had even finished speaking. ‘I know how precious you are to our order, but that will not be possible. The guide can take only one person at a time. And, as you know, only the chosen may go.’
The woman looked down at the ground for a moment. When she raised her head again, her green eyes were bright with determination.
‘He
has
been chosen, and must be taken first. It is vital that your guide should leave with him immediately. In the meantime, I will wait in the village until the guide returns to escort me. You must trust me, venerable father, he is more important than I.’
She had barely finished speaking when there was a scuffling sound from behind the herders and a small boy of about nine years old raced up to the woman and slipped his hand trustingly in hers. He had ragged dark hair and bright brown eyes, although the whites were bloodshot from dust and fatigue. He was wearing an oversized sheepskin coat, tied at the middle by a piece of knotted rope. Looking first at the woman, he then turned his gaze on the monk and asked in a voice that was clear and calm: ‘Is this the place?’
The woman smiled down at him, one hand resting on his shoulder.
‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘But we’re not far now.’
Chapter 13
The brass plaque said
PROF. SALLY TANG
,
ASIAN STUDIES
. Jack caught a glimpse of his reflection in the shiny metal, and running a hand briefly through his hair, gently rapped on the door.
‘Come in!’
Sally Tang came out from behind her desk, shifting her reading glasses on to the top of her head. She was even more petite than he remembered, with a smart beige jacket hanging off her tiny frame and long brown boots that were little bigger than a child’s.
‘Jack.’ Sally shook his hand warmly. She tucked a lock of her jet black bob behind one ear and studied him, her fine-boned face angled to one side like a bird’s. ‘You look well. Much better than in Kathmandu. Sit down, please.’
Jack smiled, settling himself into a burgundy leather armchair in front of her desk.
‘I hope you don’t mind my usurping your meeting with Robert,’ she continued. ‘I heard him mention that someone was coming into the department to talk to him about
beyuls
, and when I found out it was you, I couldn’t resist cutting in.’ She perched herself on the front of her desk. ‘But I must say, Jack, spiritual myth is a bit out of your usual line, isn’t it? As I recall, you were never interested in anything much unless it was as solid as a rock.’
‘Even dinosaurs like me can evolve, Sally – and if I didn’t have such a lousy memory these days, I would have come straight to you rather than cold-calling Professor Harris. But, of course, you’re right. It’s actually my nephew who’s become interested in the subject.’ Jack glanced at his watch and frowned. ‘He’s late as usual, but I hope that nice secretary . . . what’s her name?’
‘Emily.’
‘I hope Emily will send him our way. Meanwhile I should probably give you the background. Don’t suppose there’s any chance of a cup of coffee . . .’
Five minutes later they were both sitting in armchairs by the bay window, nursing mugs of coffee. It was now three years since they had met, by chance, on a flight out to Nepal. Sally had been waiting for her visa into Tibet, on her way to a relative’s wedding, and Jack had been on one of his geology field trips, acclimatising before going further up into the mountains. Having established their common link of the university, they had met up for dinner at her hotel, arguing good-naturedly about their different perspectives on Asia and comparing notes on academic life over cups of chrysanthemum tea.
Now they chatted easily for a while, catching up on the last few years. Sally’s astute brown eyes hardened momentarily when Jack mentioned the pyramid mountain. But as he went on to describe the other discoveries they had made about the secret system of
beyuls
, she began to smile again.
‘Well, you have got yourselves in over your heads, haven’t you? And no wonder. A geologist and an adventurer, trying to tackle the esoteric myths of Buddhism. Now the first thing I should tell you is—’ She broke off as the phone buzzed on her desk and, with a frown, went to pick it up. ‘Yes, yes. Send him through.’
A few moments later Luca walked in, wearing jeans and a yellow T-shirt with ‘Easily Distracted’ written across it. He smiled in a practised way, pushing his fringe of blond hair back from his face.
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ he said, glancing at Jack before directing the full wattage of his smile at the tiny Tibetan woman. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t inherit the punctuality gene in the family.’
Sally shook his hand in greeting, then glanced down at his T-shirt. ‘I suppose I should try and get to the point as soon as possible. Pull up a chair, Luca. I was just about to explain to Jack why you shouldn’t believe in fairytales.’
Luca hung a soft leather satchel over the back of his chair and settled down, his expression instantly focused.
‘Go on.’
Sally spread her hands. ‘Well, Jack has been telling me about your adventures in Tibet and your interest in
beyuls
. It’s a fascinating area of Buddhist folklore, no doubt about that, but I’m afraid that’s all it is: folklore.’
Luca frowned and leaned forward, resting his chin on one fist. ‘But the books all say the same thing, and they’re pretty specific: that
beyuls
are sanctuaries of total enlightenment, the most holy places in all Tibet. And they say there are twenty-one of them, situated in the most remote areas of the country.’
Sally sighed. ‘Believe me, you’re not the first person to be seduced by the idea of
beyuls
. But just listen to what you are saying – sanctuaries of total enlightenment. Doesn’t that sound like a myth to you?’
She raised one eyebrow and fixed him with the disparaging gaze that was usually reserved for her first-year students. There was a pause before she continued speaking, her voice softening a little.

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