The Forbidden Temple (24 page)

‘We’ll do everything we can, I promise.’ Then, taking Luca by the arm, she led him to the far side of the courtyard with Drang following silently in their wake.

‘I know you’re worried and have a thousand questions, but we’re all exhausted. Drang will lead you to some quarters where you can wash and sleep. I’m going to do the same, but I’ll be waiting for you when you wake. I promise I’ll answer all your questions then.’

Luca stared at her, the weight of fatigue overwhelming his suspicion. He could feel himself swaying. That final climb, carrying Bill across the valley and up those stairs, had drained every last vestige of strength from his body.

‘As soon as you hear any more about Bill . . .’

‘I promise to let you know,’ Shara said, with a faint smile. ‘Bill’s a strong man. He’ll make it through this.’

They walked up to a thick, wooden door set under one of the courtyard’s arches. With a stabbing movement of his hand, Drang motioned for Luca to continue into the shadowed interior of the monastery.

With a final glance at Shara, Luca ducked his head and stepped inside.

As the door closed behind him Shara leaned against one of the vaulted pillars, resting her forehead on the hard stone. Her legs trembled from sheer exhaustion and she felt a wave of nausea pass over her. She stood like this for a moment, trying to muster the strength to move, when suddenly she heard a voice directly behind her.

‘What have you done?’

Spinning around, she saw a figure advancing out of the shadows. The silhouette of a man moved towards her like an apparition. Then, as
it was illuminated by the full light of day, she saw that the figure was thin and angular, with a body bent from age and robes hanging loose around it. The face was deathly pale except for some patches of brown, sun-damaged skin visible beneath his balding white hair.

‘I said, what have you done?’

The eyes . . . there was something wrong with his eyes. Shara found herself staring into milky-white irises. The sockets too were damaged by some long-ago injury. And yet those eyes seemed to stare directly at her, blank but somehow accusing.

‘I . . . I . . . don’t know what you mean,’ she stammered back in Tibetan, feeling herself recoil as the figure moved closer.

‘You may have shown courage by taking your brother’s place, but you have now disgraced him. And us,’ the man hissed, a vein sticking out on the side of his neck as if a worm had been caught under its skin. ‘You have brought outsiders to our monastery. You risk everything that we have spent centuries trying to protect!’

‘But I had no choice . . . he was going to die.’

‘You of all people should know the value of what we have here. If they ever discover . . .’ The figure lapsed into silence.

‘Gather your strength.’ He signalled impatiently for Shara to follow him along one wall of the courtyard, towards another entrance. ‘You are going to tell me everything you know.’

CLOUD LAY THICK
across the valley. It covered everything, wrapping around the crooked sides of mountains and smoothing flat the twisted valleys in between. Beyond its reach, Geltang Monastery perched high on its rock-face like a giant eyrie, its sheer walls basking in the warmth of the morning sun.

Behind one of the endless lines of open windows Dorje stared out, his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes half-closed as they squinted against the glare of the sun. His normally placid expression had sharpened. A deep vertical worry line creased the centre of his forehead. He breathed in deeply, nostrils flaring as they drew in cool air from outside, and tried to steady his nerves.

His eyes followed the same line of jagged peaks he had witnessed each morning for the last thirty-six years. But today he looked upon the mountains afresh, each knife-edged ridge and towering summit so magnificent and perfect that he could scarcely believe the beauty of them all. It was only now that he felt such awe. Only now that he knew they were threatened.

Dorje slowly shook his head. Thirty-six years since he had first arrived at Geltang as a young novice monk, and in all that time he had never felt as uncertain as he did right now. Despite all their preparations, despite their every precaution, the impossible had happened: foreigners had finally discovered the monastery.

Swivelling round, he set off down the corridor with un-accustomed haste. Passing the nearest flight of steps, Dorje turned left at the end of the corridor, then right, coming to a halt in front of a heavy gilded door. He raised his hand to knock, then stopped, his head slowly slumping forward until his forehead was resting against the wooden doorframe.

He had to get Rega to agree with him.

Rega and he were equals in the monastery, second only to His Holiness the Abbot. They had ruled every facet of the order for over a decade while the Abbot gradually withdrew into himself, as custom dictated. As his enlightenment became such that he reached the highest levels of the Wheel of Life, so his introspection grew evermore intense. Now the Abbot was almost never seen outside his quarters, becoming a hermit within his own monastery.

He had been their great leader, the monk who had first begun the long and dangerous process of bringing the treasure to Geltang, and yet now the Abbot so detached from life at the monastery that he had become almost a myth within his own lifetime. As each year passed and the Abbot’s concerns grew esoteric, the daily responsibilities of running the monastery had increasingly been delegated to them.

In the present crisis, it was vital that the frayed network of alliances throughout their order be pulled together rather than allowed to splinter apart. A schism would threaten the very heart of all they held secret.

Lifting his chin up and smoothing his robe, Dorje knocked firmly on the door and entered.

The room was badly lit, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark. The only source of light was a narrow window in the far corner and the huge, vaulted room seemed to swim in a grey half-light.

Rega sat on a massive wooden chair, raised on a dais in the centre. His angular body slumped back against it, dwarfed by the chair’s giant frame. Standing to one side was a second figure, its
identity lost in the shadows. It turned at the sound of Dorje’s approach and the monk immediately recognised the muscular form of Rega’s chief aide, Drang.

Rega looked up, his blind eyes fixing unerringly on the new arrival.

‘Dorje,’ he said, the word more a fact that a form of greeting.

Dorje gave a brief nod before striding purposefully forward, coming to a halt a few paces away from the chair. He glanced at Drang, standing to one side.

‘Leave us,’ he said with a wave of dismissal.

For the briefest of moments Drang’s eyes fixed on Rega. Then he bowed low, keeping his eyes locked on Dorje, before retreating silently from the room.

‘I have come to decide what must be done,’ Dorje said, standing with his hands folded in front of him. ‘We need to make our recommendation to His Holiness.’

Rega’s cowled head slowly tilted to one side.

‘You know as well as I do what must be done,’ he said, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘It is whether you have the courage to make that choice.’

Dorje paused before asking, ‘So what would you have us do?’

Rega’s hands lay open across his lap as if appealing to the heavens.

‘We cannot risk them ever leaving. From this day onward, the Westerners must be forced to stay at Geltang.’

Dorje exhaled slowly, glancing away from Rega’s lifeless gaze and staring towards the window and its single shaft of light.

‘You know we cannot do that. Not since our order was founded has such a course ever been followed . . .’

‘Nor have we ever had such visitors!’ Rega suddenly roared, pulling himself to his feet. ‘We cannot let them back into the outside world and put at risk everything we have worked for. Others will inevitably follow and I, above anyone else, know the consequences of that.’

‘The consequences are not always the same.’

Rega’s lip curled in disdain. He stepped off the dais, the
movements of his old body fluid and self-assured within his chambers, and stopped only a few inches away from Dorje.

‘Look into my broken eyes and tell me that again,’ he hissed, throwing the cowl of his robe back so that his whole head was exposed. ‘I have suffered experiences you cannot possibly imagine. The last thing these eyes saw was our monks being butchered and the sacred treasure burning. And you dare suggest that the consequences will not be the same?’

Dorje found himself retreating a pace. Then he stiffened his back and replied in a measured voice.

‘I think perhaps your judgement on this matter is clouded. They are not Chinese, these men, but simple climbers. And you would do well to remember that, although they did not know it, they were actually the ones who ensured our treasure was delivered safely.’

‘They acted unwittingly!’ Flecks of spittle shot from Rega’s mouth as he spoke. ‘Imagine how differently they would have acted if they knew what she was delivering.’

Dorje shrugged his shoulders, his frown line deepening.

‘These are uncertain times, but I believe they must serve some purpose in being here. The will of Buddha brought them to our gates. We cannot judge them, nor condemn them, without first understanding why they are here. I understand the suspicion you must feel, given all that you have been through . . .’ Dorje’s voice trailed off.

‘You understand?’ Rega sneered. ‘You understand what, exactly?’

There was a pause, the tension between them heightened by the absolute quiet in the chamber.

‘Do you know why they lined up the older monks?’ Rega asked softly.

Dorje was bemused. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘They lined them up because it was not practical to bring them back over the mountain pass. They would have slowed the soldiers down too much. Instead, a novice was chosen and a gun placed in his hands. Then . . . BANG!’ Rega clapped his hands together, the
noise echoing loudly. ‘The Abbot was shot first. Then they did away with all our most venerable fathers, one by one, while the rest of our order stood by, watching by the light of our own burning monastery.’

Light from the window cut across Rega’s face. All the colour had drained from his cheeks.

‘But I never saw the others die,’ he continued. ‘By then I had lost my sight. I just heard the endless cracks of the rifles.’

Dorje looked down at the ground. A well of sickening emotion flooding through him – pity mixed with revulsion at such violence. He had always known that Rega had escaped from one of the earliest
beyuls
, but in all their time together, he had never once heard him speak of it.

‘You are right,’ Dorje said slowly. ‘I cannot imagine what you have been through. I apologise for my presumption.’

Rega brushed off the remark, his expression still harsh.

‘Unless you wish to stand by and watch history repeat itself, the foreigners must be forced to remain here. That is the only solution.’

As he spoke there was a rap on the door and Drang quietly stepped inside. He made to approach them but Dorje’s hand shot out, gesturing him to wait.

‘Even if we agreed to it, how do you propose to detain the Westerners?’ he asked, his voice kept low so that only Rega could hear.

Rega leaned closer to him, so Dorje could smell the musty aroma of his robes.

‘The Perfect Life. We must force them to take it.’

Dorje’s eyes widened in surprise. Before he could speak Rega had signalled for Drang to approach.

‘A messenger from the Abbot,’ Drang announced.

Behind him a tall boy of about fourteen hesitantly shuffled into the room. The boy’s robes clung to his gangly body and he moved awkwardly, as if too tall for his age. He came to a halt a few metres away from the dais and dropped into a low bow. As he pulled himself vertical once again, he reached out his right hand which contained
a tightly-rolled scroll. He presented it in the direction of Rega then, realising his mistake, quickly moved his arm so that it was pointing towards Dorje instead.

Dorje gathered himself and moved towards the boy.

‘Thank you, Norbu,’ he said softly. He knew how flustered the Abbot’s aide could become by just the simplest change in his routine. Dorje’s eyes quickly scanned the parchment.

‘We are to keep the Westerners separate and to observe them. That is the Abbot’s decree.’

‘But it is for us to advise him,’ Rega protested. ‘Does he not wish to hear our voice on such a matter? And what of the Council of Elders?’

Dorje didn’t answer but simply released the corners of the parchment, allowing it to roll back on itself. He stood lost in thought while Rega began pacing up and down in front of the dais.

‘I do not like what has been happening recently,’ he proclaimed, his thin fingers balled into fists. ‘Strange things have happened that have never been allowed before. Two weeks ago a boy arrived who did not pass our initiation and was not of age, yet he was shown directly to the Abbot’s quarters . . . And now this mild treatment of Westerners. Does the Abbot not realise that they could destroy everything?’ He pointed to Norbu, standing with his head bowed subserviently. ‘You, Abbot’s messenger, who was that boy exactly? You are the one charged with looking after him, are you not?’

Norbu’s eyes looked to Dorje pleadingly then back to Rega.

‘He . . . he is from Lhasa, venerable father,’ he answered, stuttering slightly. ‘The third son of the Depon family.’

‘Indeed. And, tell me, who is his father?’

Norbu’s cheeks flooded with colour. He rocked back and forth, shoulders hunched from tension. His lips moved silently as he tried to articulate the sentence and hold back his stammer.

‘He is the honourable Gyaltso Depon, second . . . second governor of the city of Lhasa.’

Dorje swept forward, coming between Rega and the boy.

‘Enough of this!’ he said. ‘This boy is just a messenger.’ Then his voice became gentler as he put a hand on Norbu’s shoulder. ‘Go to the Abbot, child, and inform His Holiness that we will honour his request to keep the Westerners separate and observed.’