The Forbidden Temple (14 page)

‘Because yours is the true path.’

‘What will he do with our truth?’

‘He will serve the will of Buddha.’

After a respectful pause the second of the monks moved forward. He was younger, in his mid-fifties, and his lips were turning upward in the beginnings of a warm smile.

‘
Tashi delek
, old friend,’ he said, standing before the guide. ‘You must be tired from the journey.’ Then, turning to Babu who stood staring up at him, ‘Welcome, child. The Abbot has requested that you go to him immediately.’

The monk reached out his hand, taking hold of Babu’s and made to lead him away, but the boy recoiled, clutching on to the leg of his guide. The man crouched down so that his face was level with the boy’s.

‘You must go with Dorje. He will protect you from now on. I can’t stay with you any longer, I have to go back to the village to guide your friend.’

‘But who are they?’ asked Babu, his voice high-pitched and frightened.

‘They are . . . friends,’ replied the guide, unclasping the boy’s hand and gently pushing him forward. ‘Go with them.’

As the monk before them gave a short bow and turned to lead Babu through one of the archways in the courtyard behind, his elder colleague reached out a hand and stopped them.

‘This boy is not of age,’ he hissed.

‘I know.’

‘And what of the initiation?’ the older man continued, lowering his voice even further. ‘He must go before the Council.’

‘Not this one, Rega. I represent the Abbot on this.’

Babu gazed up at the old monk who stood blocking their way. His
young face grew serious as it studied the strange milky irises that seemed to stare down at him from damaged eye sockets. Then he smiled, childish innocence flooding his face as he reached out and plucked the edge of the monk’s blue robe.

‘Don’t be upset, father. I will not be here long.’

A CARAVAN OF
three yaks and four men toiled slowly across the dry Tibetan hills. The animals set the pace, a lumbering gait that varied little whether the trail led up or down. They followed the slow course of a muddy brown river with patches of green vegetation and stunted, windblown trees on its banks. The trees offered some shade against the midday heat but soon the path twisted again, up and away from the river, into the open plateau beyond.

Away to the south, Bill and Luca caught their first proper glimpses of the Himalayas. The snow-capped summits tore through a low bank of cloud like a jagged case of knives. Even from the distance, they looked colossal and forbidding.

Bringing up the rear of the caravan were two Tibetan yak drivers, Jigmi and Soa. They wore thick sheepskin jackets and felt boots that had been repaired so many times that the original fabric was almost completely lost to stitching. Between them they maintained a constant soundtrack, alternately yelling encouragement to the animals or, if they strayed a pace or two away from the pathway, hurling small pebbles at their woolly flanks.

Each day the group left before dawn and only stopped on the rare occasions when the trail branched. The yaks would jangle to a halt,
awaiting further instruction, while Bill and Luca gulped down some iodised water, thankful for the break. At the back of the line, Jigmi and Soa barely drank or rested, seemingly oblivious to the sun and heat.

When they first set off from the road at Tingkye, they had passed a new village every few hours. Each was bustling and affluent, with whitewashed houses adorned with ornate, brightly coloured windowsills. On the flat roofs the women bundled cut hay, while out in the terraced fields the men worked the land. Clouds of dust hovered over entire villages, the hay a brilliant yellow in the sunlight.

But soon the villages became smaller and more sporadic. The houses shrank to little more than shacks with rickety wooden planks for walls and loose thatch on the roofs. Cooking smoke rose from each, billowing out through cracks in the walls into the cloudless sky. The smaller villages seemed to be almost deserted except for a few children and the occasional lethargic dog staked out in the shade of a tree. Sometimes they would pass without even being noticed. Only a couple of brief months remained before the season changed and everyone able to work was out in the fields.

After three days of walking and camping on the side of the trail, they finally reached the top of a high spur. Luca stood on a large boulder, clicking off photographs from a battered Canon camera. He knew that Bill never took one on any of their expeditions. When he’d once asked why, his friend had tapped the side of his head, saying that he preferred to store it all there rather than rely on bundles of shiny paper that would fade over the years. Luca’s eyebrows had shot up in amazement at such an old-fashioned sensibility, and eventually the two men had had to agree to differ.

Satisfied with the photographs, Luca reached inside his rucksack to unfold a map, while Bill weaved around the back of one of the yaks to stand beside him. Luca could see the first in a long line of mountains stretching away ahead of them. Mist clung to their foothills as if it had been belched out from folds in the ground,
and the summits bent round to the north-east like the spine of a slumbering dinosaur.

All around them there was a sense of peace, as if time had slowed down and the world was finally breathing again in its own natural rhythm.

‘That’s them,’ said Luca softly. ‘That’s what we’re here for.’

Bill looked down at the map, then squinted across at the ring of mountains.

‘Jesus! They’re stunning. How high do you think they are?’

‘Probably somewhere just over six. If this is halfway correct, we’ll soon cross over the Jongsang-la and start descending to a few more villages at the base of these mountains. From the looks of it, there are three in total.’

Luca’s mouth moved as he practised saying the name of the first village on the map. Then, pointing his finger down across the valley, he shouted, ‘Rawok-tso’ to the nearer of the two yak herders. The man had his knee up against the side of the leading beast, tightening the rope that stretched underneath its belly. Looking up at Luca, he nodded his head and with his free hand pointed in the same direction.

‘Rawok-tso,’ he said, and gave the rope an almighty tug.

Over the next two days they followed the same path, twisting through the foothills of the mountains. Luca remained silent almost the entire time, eyes scanning every fissure and turn of the range ahead. From time to time he would click his tongue with frustration and stride out, pressing the yak-herders to quicken the pace and only calling a halt to the day’s march long after the sun had set.

As the hours and days wore on, his mood darkened. By the time the others emerged from their tents in the morning, he would have sloshed the remains of his coffee on to a nearby rock and be striking camp, ready to leave.

Bill knew exactly what was getting to him. So far they had not seen a single, workable route through the circular range. Their flanks rose up like the sides of a fortress, unbroken for mile after mile, with only
occasional gullies carving through them. Originally Luca had thought that these gullies would lead them up to the higher ground, but each was steep and covered in loose scree. As the sun passed across the sky, warming the mountainsides, rocks come clattering down the face. Hemmed in by the walls of the gullies, they smacked into the lower slopes with terrifying speed and regularity. The noise echoed across to where they stood motionless, listening to the reverberations. Jigmi and Soa would mutter darkly to each other, but neither Bill nor Luca said a word – each rockfall a constant reminder of the dangers that lay ahead.

While Luca grew ever more agitated, Bill withdrew into himself, keeping to the back of the caravan. He seldom looked up at the mountains, keeping his focus locked on the pathway where he took the journey a step at a time. Only around the campfire in the evening did the two friends engage in any real conversation, with Luca complaining about the lack of possible routes while Bill tried to stifle his own growing sense of apprehension.

As they curled into their sleeping bags each night, Luca could see Bill hunched over, his broad back concealing the small moleskin journal he always brought with him. He knew it was Bill’s way of dealing with being apart from Cathy, and in all their expeditions together he had not once asked him what he was writing. It had always been like that – Bill recounting every last detail, categorising and processing his thoughts in neatly handwritten sentences.

At the last village they’d passed, Luca had used his phrase book and limited Tibetan to try and get some more information from the locals. After a somewhat torturous exchange, punctuated by hand movements and confused silences, it became apparent that the locals had never crossed the mountains and knew of no paths that did, either in winter or summer. When Luca pointed to the summits and gestured as to whether they had ever been climbed, the farmer questioned had only given a confused smile, as if querying why anyone should want to go to the top of a mountain anyway.

But as they began to move off towards the next village, the farmer
had grabbed Jigmi by the shoulder, his face creased in worry. They spoke for some time, with Soa soon becoming embroiled in the conversation. Both of the herders looked equally disturbed.

Eventually Luca broke in, signalling to Jigmi to explain to him. He tried, speaking slowly with hand gestures, while Luca struggled to make some sense of it all with the aid of his phrase book.

‘What’s he on about?’ Bill asked.

Luca thumbed swiftly through the pages. ‘Not sure, but that farmer is obviously putting the fear of God into him.’

Finding the right page, Luca looked for a word and repeated it slowly to Jigmi who nodded vigorously, looking relieved.

‘They’re saying there is an illness up in the next village,’ Luca explained. ‘I’m not sure what.’

Bill frowned. ‘If the farmer’s reaction is anything to go by, it could be pretty serious.’

Luca repeated the word again. All three men nodded, with the farmer pointing down the path for extra emphasis. After a pause, Luca turned back to Bill and shrugged.

‘Look, these people are very superstitious,’ he said. ‘They probably think it’s some kind of sign. It doesn’t mean the illness is deadly or anything.’

‘You reckon? Take a look at the man,’ Bill replied, his own eyes fixed on the farmer’s face. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m not walking right into the middle of a disease-ridden village if I can help it.’

Luca sighed, looking out past the few shacks to the mountains beyond. His eyes followed their jagged outlines meeting the horizon.

‘I’ve seen no route through in all the time we’ve been following this path. We’ve got to go on to see if there’s a way up past the next village. Every range has a chink in its armour somewhere, and I bet you this one is just around the corner.’

Bill shook his head.

‘Haven’t you been listening to what this guy is trying to tell us? It’s not safe.’

‘So what are our choices? We either press on and hope everyone’s had their flu jab, or we cancel the whole damn trip. I don’t know about you, mate, but I for one have come way too far to turn back now.’

As Luca started to shoulder his rucksack, avoiding eye contact, Bill remained fixed in thought, his expression tense. Then his shoulders seemed to relax and he looked up at Luca with a resigned smile.

‘Screw it,’ he said softly. ‘You’re right, we can’t turn back now. We’ve come too far.’

They both turned to see the herders still engrossed in conversation with the farmer who seemed to be even more panicked than before. He gestured erratically with his hands, his voice raised. Jigmi and Soa looked on, their worried eyes following his every movement.

Bill watched them for a moment before turning back to Luca.

‘I’m in. But I think they’re going to be less of a pushover.’

A FAX ROLLED
off the coffee-stained machine and on to the floor of the Public Security Bureau’s headquarters in Lhasa. Less than a minute later the blurry printout was retrieved, placed into a standard, government-issue file and set before the eyes of Captain Zhu.

He read the missive then leaned back in his chair, using his left hand only to light a thin cigarette. As he inhaled the smoke, letting the remainder curl up into the sunlight, he smoothed the side parting of his hair. His eyes ranged over the small, smoke-stained office he had requisitioned before resting on a faded poster taped to the far wall. Snow-clad mountains were wrapped round in a panoramic display with the morning light just touching the summit of each one. There were other such pictures like this around the office – peasants leading yaks through the ploughed terraces, nomads camped on the edge of crystal blue lakes. Hard to believe, but that was what the rest of Tibet was really like. It was like something out of the Dark Ages.

On the way back from Drapchi Prison their convoy had passed rows and rows of diggers and cranes. All around them, men and machines hammered away in construction sites with clouds of dust clinging to the sides of iron girders and scaffolding rigs. New mobile phone towers had shot up and there was a frenetic energy to the now sprawling city of Lhasa. It was hard to imagine that barely a mile out of the city everything changed. The wide highways faded into dust
tracks and the mighty new glass buildings were little more than empty shells, lit only by sporadic electricity.

Zhu had insisted on driving back through the Tibetan quarter. On receiving the order, Chen immediately radioed ahead and two armoured cars were sent to meet them near the entrance to the Jokhang. As they approached, the atmosphere had immediately changed inside the jeeps. The soldiers straightened in their seats, pulling the magazines off their AK-47 rifles to check the first round.

As they beeped their horns, edging through the narrow streets thick with people, Zhu watched hundreds of Tibetans going about their day. The market was brimming with activity: hawkers calling their prices, old men playing dice on the side of the road, and the endless procession of devotees circumnavigating the holy Temple. Each turned to stare as the Chinese vehicles pushed their way through, the soldier in the passenger seat leaning right out of the rolled-down window and shouting for them to make way.