The Forbidden Temple (43 page)

Dorje slowly turned away from the window, his expression gradually darkening.

‘But, as you know, our
beyuls
were discovered and razed to the ground. One by one they fell, and many of our treasured books were lost. After Benchaan Monastery fell, two complete paths were destroyed by the flames and it was then that a decision was made throughout the five orders to draw all knowledge to Geltang. But the books could not be transported by hand. This was the dark time of the Cultural Revolution and all religious works were either confiscated or burned on sight, their carriers arrested and brutally tortured. We could not afford for any more to be lost.

‘So, in all this madness, certain monks were chosen to memorise each of the books by rote. Every word, sentence and paragraph of Buddha was thus preserved in living, walking books. Disguised as peasants or traders, they then made their way past road blocks and patrols, eventually arriving at Geltang to begin the long process of transcribing each of the teachings back on to paper.’

‘Books?’ Luca repeated. ‘That’s what all this is about – books?’

‘Yes,’ Dorje answered softly. ‘And now we have nearly all of the surviving texts. The last of the eighth path is all but complete.’

Luca shook his head, picturing the lines of monks he had seen in the library, pens working in a ceaseless flow across the pages. Shara had been there, amongst them.

‘That’s what she was delivering, wasn’t it?’

‘I presume you mean Miss Shara? She is indeed a living book – the fifth book of the eighth path, and one of our most treasured works. She is here under most exceptional circumstances. Her brother was meant to deliver the text to us but was caught crossing the border three years ago. We have not heard from him since that day, nor know anything more of his fate. So, after much deliberation, it was
discovered that Miss Shara has the same ability as her brother and she volunteered to take his place. As she was travelling across the breadth of Tibet to deliver her book to our sacred monastery, news of an attempt on His Holiness’s life was made known to members of the Gelugpa sect. They managed to divert her and she was charged with bringing the boy here. The rest of the story is of course known to you.’

Luca’s expression remained blank as he tried to imagine memorising an entire book. The tomes he had seen in the library were inches thick.

‘I’ve been in the library and seen them working,’ he said, ‘but I can’t understand how a person could memorise an entire book.’

‘To be sure, it is no small matter, especially given the significance of what they were memorising. But the human mind is capable of so much more than we give it credit for. Even in Western societies you see abundant evidence of all it can do. Take those afflicted by certain types of autism, for instance. They are able to retain and process vast amounts of information.’ Dorje paused, thinking back to the early days when he had first arrived at Geltang, disguised as a wandering beggar. ‘It was only after many years and countless trials of controlled meditation that some of us were able to access this exact same part of the brain.’

As Dorje fell silent, a beam of sunlight cut through one of the open windows, shining down on to the low table in front of them. The Abbot craned his neck slightly, his eyes crinkling in a soft smile as his gaze moved out to the view of the mountains. After a moment, he gestured for Luca to go to the window for himself. Luca set down his bowl and slowly got to his feet.

Beyond the interlocking valleys the entire pyramid mountain was exposed, its summit free from cloud in a rare moment. Luca’s eyes followed the clean lines of its sides until they converged in a sharp, glinting point, as if threatening to pierce a hole in the sky. Despite it all, he was staggered by the mountain’s beauty. He could feel the cool air circulating through the open window and inhaled deeply, the
emotions he had struggled with during the past week resurfacing with overwhelming force.

There was a soft tinkling sound and Lucaz turned to see the Abbot holding a small, golden bell. The Abbot gestured for Luca to sit before him and, with his right hand outstretched, rested his palm against Luca’s forehead. Luca kept his head bent low as the Abbot recited a long blessing before finally removing his hand.

‘Time for you to go,’ he said in a thick accent.

A sudden fear swept over Luca at the idea of leaving. He had been so engrossed in his own endless remorse that he had blocked out any thought of what would happen when he finally made it home.

Now a chill settled in the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t so much having to resume his life and deal with the banality of everything he had left behind – his job, his home, his father’s hopes – it was having to face Cathy and explain the terrible tragedy of it all. It was as if he had been living in suspended judgement since Bill had died. But with each day that passed, the images he had first seen in the Chinese soldier’s tent had lengthened, hardening into bitter emotions that replayed endlessly in his mind. He would often wake from them feeling physically sick.

How could he possibly go back now? How would they ever understand what had truly happened?

Luca felt the same sickness wash over him and reached out a hand to steady himself. He was suddenly overtaken by a desire to stay here in Geltang, amongst the placid monks and silent mountains. Why should he not stay – fall back into a new life here and leave behind everything he had once known?

‘I don’t want to go,’ he said, his eyes meeting the Abbot’s. ‘I need some time to work it all out. Begin again.’

The Abbot’s expression remained set.

‘You must face own life,’ he said, pointing a finger at Luca’s chest. ‘Only once you see own life, can you see others.’

There was the sound of approaching footsteps and Shara arrived at
the top of the stairs. She bowed deeply towards the Abbot before her eyes settled on Luca. A flash of concern passed over her face, before she reached out a hand towards him.

‘Come,’ she said, attempting a smile. ‘Everything is ready.’

Luca stood under the blossom trees in the courtyard, watching the petals slowly drift to the ground. Just to the right, the stone steps reached down into the base of the mountain far below. It felt as if a lifetime had passed since they had first staggered across these same flagstones with Bill held in their arms.

Shara had already prepared Luca’s rucksack and it was resting on its side by the first of the steps, crammed with provisions and kit. On an enclave in the nearby wall, she was pouring two fist-sized cups of tea.

‘So how long will it take you to transcribe the whole book?’ Luca asked, still staring at the blossom.

‘Two to three years at least,’ Shara answered, carefully setting the cups down on the edge of the first step and looking out at the view. Luca moved closer, so that they were side by side. ‘Of course, it took me many more years to memorise it in the first place.’

Luca glanced down at the delicate china cups.

‘I think I’ve had enough of that stuff,’ he said.

‘This one is for me,’ Shara said, picking up one of the cups and taking a small sip. ‘The other will wait here for you, as is our custom, in case you ever decide to return.’

Luca looked up into her pale green eyes. They shone with a sadness he’d not seen before, and from the way her lips were pressed together, he could tell she was trying to hold back her emotions.

‘But the Abbot told me to leave. He doesn’t want me back.’

‘He told you to face up to your life. When you’ve done that, you’re free to go wherever you choose.’ She reached out and took one of his hands between both of hers. ‘But whatever happens, Luca, just remember that it was not your fault that Bill died.’

At the mention of his name, Luca turned his eyes away from hers.
The enormity of it all crashed over him again, almost driving the air from his chest.

‘Goodbye, Shara,’ he whispered, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. His face remained pressed against hers for a moment longer, breathing in her delicate scent. Then he suddenly turned away, squaring his shoulders. He scooped his rucksack off the ground and started down the steps, tilting his face away from her and hiding his eyes.

Shara remained at the head of the stairway, the breeze playing with the long strands of her hair. For a long while she watched his retreating figure, waiting for him to turn his head back towards the monastery. But he kept on walking, until his outline had gradually sunk back into the far mountains and the tea sitting beside her had long since gone cold.

REGA STAGGERED ALONG
the broken pathway, clutching on to Drang’s arm. The toes of his sandals caught on the loose stones, tripping him forward, while his spare arm reached out into thin air, fingers splayed wide.

Everything was so unfamiliar. There was no corridor to guide him, no indentations in the stone wall to show him the way. His whole world had been based on familiarity and memory, and now all that had been ripped from him.

The wind streamed across his face and Rega inhaled the cold air deep into his lungs. It smelled bitter and fresh, and he didn’t recognise a single part of it. In the monastery he had been able to tell every storeroom from the smell of its countless jars and vials. He could navigate the twists of the library just from the aroma of the dry parchments. Yet here, in the open vastness of the mountains, all that knowledge suddenly counted for nothing.

The wind grew in strength, tugging at his cowl and billowing out his robes.

The moment he was banished from Geltang, and the gates had been bolted shut behind him, Rega had felt a terrible sense of helplessness overcome him.

‘We must reach the shelter of the lower valleys,’ he said, trying to keep the fear from his voice.

He could feel Drang tugging at his sleeve. They were moving tortuously slowly down the path and he guessed his aide’s patience was fast running out. In the mountains, an old blind man could only slow him down.

‘You have always been a loyal aide,’ Rega said, briefly resting his other hand on Drang’s forearm. ‘And you shall be rewarded for such service, I give you my word.’

Drang only grunted, his good eye staring down the slope in front of him. Gauze bandages were wrapped tight across his face, and where the skin was visible it shone with a greasy extract used in the treatment of burns. Under the bandages, weeping patches of raw skin clung to the gauze.

‘Most loyal,’ Rega repeated, fear thick in his voice.

Drang grunted again, pressing him forward. Across the far line of mountain peaks he could see clouds rolling over the sky, blotting out the sun. The wind had already changed direction, bringing in an icy cold front from the higher slopes. A storm was brewing.

Rega stumbled on a rock lying in the centre of the pathway, his hands digging into Drang’s arm for support. He pulled himself upright, his breathing laboured, and quickly tried to gather himself to continue. Drang simply watched, his expression unchanged, as Rega staggered forward once more.

For another hour they continued before Drang pulled him to a halt.

‘The ground is more dangerous ahead, Father,’ he said. ‘The path has run out. I need to go ahead and check the way down.’

Rega nodded and very slowly uncurled his hands from Drang’s arm. He stood on his own, shifting his weight and reaching out his arms to balance himself. He heard Drang leave a bag at his feet, then the scuffing of his boots across the uneven ground just ahead and some loose pebbles tumbling away down the slope. After that, there was only the noise of the mounting wind.

For over two hours Rega stood where he was, in the vain hope of
Drang returning. Even when he understood that his aide was never coming back, he remained in the same place for want of anywhere else to go. The wind whipped around him, sending ripples across the folds of his robes, but he did not reach down into the bag at his feet and put on one of the heavy jackets they’d been given.

Turning back in the direction they had come, Rega tilted his head up towards the distant walls of Geltang, his expression shadowed with remorse.

‘I’m so tired of it all,’ he whispered. Then, sitting down on the hard ground, he lowered his head, letting the cold slowly claim him.

JACK MILTON WAS
discussing Phd potential with an undergraduate in his study when there was a knock at his door. It opened a fraction to reveal the left side of Luca’s face.

‘Jesus, Luca!’ he said, jumping up from behind his desk. ‘We’ll continue this later,’ he muttered to the student, waving him up from the armchair and out of the room.

As Luca stepped hesitantly into the office, Jack took him by the shoulders. As soon as he touched him, he could feel just how much weight Luca had lost. His grey eyes looked paler than normal and were ringed with fatigue. Despite his clean clothes, Luca’s sunburned face and matted hair made him look weathered and somehow uncivilised, a far cry from the pale academics who normally inhabited Jack’s study.

‘Why didn’t you call?’ he demanded. ‘We hadn’t heard from you in so long, we thought the worst had happened.’

He pulled his nephew forward, hugging him tight in his arms. Eventually, with a couple of awkward pats on his back, Jack stepped away and turned to the window. Behind his reading glasses, Luca could see his eyes were clouded with tears.

‘Next time you go on a trip, I’m giving you a bloody satellite phone,’ he said, busying himself by making some coffee. Pouring the dregs from
the glass pot into the top of the coffee machine again, he packed in some new grounds from a well-thumbed packet and pressed the switch. Soon they were settled into the two armchairs, facing each other.

For over an hour Luca talked. In all that time Jack did not interrupt or ask questions, but sipped his coffee long after it had turned cold. A mixture of disbelief and horror spread across his face as his nephew related every step of the journey. When Luca explained what had happened to Bill, Jack reached up his hands to his face and covered his eyes. His shoulders shook from sobs and for a long time after that they both sat in silence. Eventually Luca got up from his chair and poured his uncle another coffee, resting his hand briefly on his shoulder as he passed him the cup.