The Maharajah's Monkey (25 page)

I turned a corner and stepped into light.

It was so sudden. The sunshine seemed harsh, unearthly. It dazzled, making me blink. There was something barring my way. I could only see the silhouette of this creature, outlined in the center of the glare. It was huge and hairy, its ears standing out from its face. I knew the stories of the monster that stalks these mountains. The yeti. I wanted to run away but there was nowhere to go. So I blundered forward blindly, so reeling with fright that I tripped over and fell forward, flat on my face. Something bent over me, an animal exhaling a warm, peaty smell.

Gently, as if I was a baby, large hands lifted me.

Warm breath on my face, scented with vanilla and something richer, chocolatey, underneath. Fur enclosed me. I was carried, cradled in this creature's arms, while it loped over the earth. I had the sensation we were skimming through the air, swooping like a couple of overgrown swallows. I could see nothing beyond the thing's arms and the heavens awash with opal light. Abruptly, the motion stopped and it lowered me on to the ground. I was lying on a yielding surface. A bank of leaves. I sank into the softness, looking straight up into the sky.

The hard sun dazzled my eyes after the tunnel. I realized I had found it strangely soothing down there inside the mountain. Darkness had comforted me; lifting a burden of worry and decisions from my head. Wherever I was now, here there was no escape from the light.

“Are you a yeti?” I asked.

The thing laughed. It had a beautiful, warm voice. “No, I am not a yeti,” it said.

“What are you then?”

“I am a Guardian.”

I struggled to sit up. Above me the sun was blazing. It was different somehow, flat like a saucer, a fiercer, closer orb than I was used to. It was merciless; shadow melted away, leaving nothing but hard edges and an awful clarity.

“Am I on earth?” I asked the strange animal.

It wriggled in answer. With one sinuous movement the thing shrugged off the hairy pelt. Inside the coat that had covered her from the top of her head to the tips of her fingers and toes was a woman. With mouth and nose and, well, everything. As human as you or me. A woman, with a soft face, shiny black eyes and short brown hair, cropped as close to her head as a soldier's or a monk's. I could not say she was young or old, beautiful or not; even Tibetan, Indian or English. It puzzled me that she had carried me with such ease, for her hands were small and fine-boned, not the large, soft paws I had felt. She had, though, a very calm countenance and now she gently inclined her head.

“This is Shambala?”

“Some call it that.”

I looked around, ready for wonders. You may think
me foolish, but I expected something marvelous. Leprechauns, unicorns whiter than snow, perhaps a rainbow bridge arching into the heavens. At the very least a shimmering ice city, rising from the crystal mountains. I do not know quite what my fancies were, but I was ready for anything.

Except what I saw: a small, rather humdrum Tibetan village. The houses were built of irregular sized stones, their roofs weighted down, as we had seen in the garrison, with rocks. There were several of these clustered together, behind them was an orchard, and snaking through the village, a burbling stream. It was an oasis of green, of plants and flowers and trees, flitting with small humming birds and the thrum of bees and other insects. I spied a mynah and a hoopoe, a juniper bush in the shadow of gently waving willow. Dark-blushed cherry trees, a grove of sugar cane. It was pretty enough. Why then was there a knot of discontent inside me? Had I come so far, through snow and ice, under shadow of death for this? Peaceful and charming, and just a little bit ordinary?

Apart from the crystal peaks rising behind the meadows, ringing it in a protective barrier of ice, I could have found a dozen villages near my Oxford home a little like this. Some of the windows in the houses were cracked, the stonework irregular, even shabby.

Shabby? Could Paradise really be shabby?

“This is truly Shambala?”

Disappointment must have shown in my voice for the lady answered with a smile.

“It is what you see.” Still smiling, she asked in that same beautiful voice. “You have something for me?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“It is there,” she pointed at my heart. “Our map.”

Rage bubbled up inside me. Yongden had stolen it, now this lady. But it was my talisman. My map was melded to me, had become as much a part of Kit as the scar on my face, my irregular breath and my heart which insisted on beating with such agitation.

“It's my map.”

“No, Kit, it belongs here.”

“No. It's mine.”

“Please.”

It was agonizing, but her outstretched hand was a force I couldn't resist. She had taken over my own muscles, bent my will to hers, as I delved into my pocket and felt the rolled-up piece of parchment. Slowly I took it out and handed it unwillingly to the lady. “What is your name?”

“Maya,” she answered.

“Maya,” I rolled the unfamiliar syllables around on my tongue. “Can I have my map back, Maya?”

She shook her head. “No. This map should have never left this place.”

“But it's useless to
you
. Just a piece of paper.” A wheedling note entered my voice. “I never found Abominable Cave or Javelin Rock. Or
anything
on it.”

“Sometimes we do not know what we have found.”

“Pardon?”

“Look at it this way. This map brought you here. This is somewhere that doesn't want to be found.”

Everything she said was a riddle. “What do you mean the map brought me here? Yongden brought me here.”

“The map showed him the way.”

“And this place is secret?”

“We are content not to be known.” Maya leaned down and offered me her hand to stand up and I noticed that she was wearing simple cotton robes of a dark orange color.

“Come.” She moved away, light-footed, robes swishing. I stared after her and I must confess I didn't understand. Why was I here? What made this place so special?

“Why must I follow you?” I called out.

She turned and flicked me a glance. I couldn't tell whether it was impatience or amusement in her eyes: “Your friends are waiting for you.”

“Rachel and Waldo and Isaac!” I forgot the anger at Maya, which had been building up in me. So Yongden must have been wrong. My friends hadn't turned back for India. Joy surged through me, as I ran after her.

Maya led me through the village and we plunged into a screen of trees. They whispered all around us, cutting out the light, their tentacles trailing feather-light over our cheeks. Leaf mold underfoot, the wind soughing up above. I felt drawn into a place of secrets. These ancient cypress, spruce and cherry were not wood, sap and leaf, but spirits watching us. The branches parted and we were in a grassy glade. Gnarled and wily, the trees bent over the clearing, ancient prophets protecting something precious. Wild flowers exploded under their guardianship: orchids glimmering like ice crystals, blue poppies, pansies of velvety hue, oleander and lotus. Through the flowers moved indistinct shapes—butterflies on the flit, bees thrumming, dragonflies drunk on nectar. A fountain was welling up under the shadow of the largest spruce, its plashing a tinkling glissando.

“Perfect!” I sighed.

I breathed in the scents of the glade—blackberry,
chocolate, vanilla, rose and jasmine. Such a sweet smell. With every exhalation my worldly concerns flew away, dissolving in the sugar-laden air. This, finally, was an earthly paradise.

We moved deeper into the clearing and I saw figures clustered around the fountain, clothed in unearthly brilliance. They bathed in the light of the fountain, which played about them like trembling moonbeams.

I was confused, yet at the same time free. This
was
real, I was awake. But part of me wondered, was I in some way in paradise? I didn't walk so much as float over to my friends. I felt fuzzy and light-hearted.

Abruptly my feeling of enchantment was shattered. I halted, in horror.

“NO!” I howled.

“They arrived here just before you,” Maya murmured.

“
These aren't my friends!
”

“They are the other map-bearers.”

It wasn't Rachel, Isaac and Waldo splashing in the spring. It was the Baker Brothers. They no longer looked like ghosts. Lust fleshed them out, filling their eyes and faces with desperate longing. They scrambled to catch the water, hair and skin damp with sweat. Greed contorted their features. Lying at their feet was a heap of empty bottles. Each brother was holding another bottle into the gushing flow, disregarding the spume that
flecked their white linen suits.

One of the Brothers was horribly disfigured, his skin pocked with suppurating craters that had dried out into a porridge of sores. Something had been leeching him of his blood. He was a foul, besmirched creature. A thing set apart from the rest of humanity. I recalled the rumors that he had been cursed by the spirit of Ptah Hotep. The Mummy Bite was upon him.

Chittering above the terrible Brothers was the monkey. Its yellow teeth were bared, as it stood on the arms of the pockmarked brother, holding a bottle in the very center of the fountain. The monkey was possessed by an intense frenzy. Every fiber of its being was concentrated on the sparkling waters.

I was so close I could have reached out and touched them. I might have been a phantom, for all the notice they took of me. I didn't understand what this scene meant. Yet I knew one thing. My aunt was wrong. This—not gold—was what the Baker Brothers had been searching for.

“What are they doing?” I asked Maya, watching the threesome's naked scramble.

“Reaching for the impossible.”

“The fountain?”

“The dancing waters do not want to be captured.”

The water was indeed dancing. It was jigging, effervescing, a joyous shower of droplets, singing of life
and freedom. It did not want to be trapped. Though the gurning figures were spattered in their attempts to capture the liquid, only a few drops were falling into their containers. There was something very odd about the bottles at their feet. Was it my imagination that the sparkling dew inside was escaping, flying its glass prison?

“These waters have been dreamt of through the ages by people the world over. You may know some of the names: Elixir … Nectar … Amrita … Manasrovar.”

“The Fountain of Life,” I breathed.

Maya's beautiful voice shushed in my ears. “Drink of the waters and you will live forever.”

“Live forever?” I echoed, wonder flooding me.

“You can drink, Kit.”

The monkey moved off the brother's shoulder, swinging its bottle in triumph. Inside a few drops of water sparkled. Its eyes fell on me. Anger flared in their dull, yellow depths. It yowled, but it was too intent to be diverted. After an instant it ignored me and resumed its work, greedily trying to steal every drop of the precious waters.

“I don't know.” I stood by Maya irresolute. Half of my blood was straining toward those waters, the other half could not move. My scar began to throb and a voice whispered seductively in my head.

“
Drink, Kit, drink.
”

Maya was smiling at me.

“
You too could live forever
,” my tempter voice murmured.

If I drank, I would become faster, stronger, better. My scar would heal. I would have no ugly wound to mark me out.

“
Drink, Scarface, drink. What are you waiting for? Scared?
” The voice was cold and high-pitched. The conviction came to me that, somehow, that monkey was inside my head.

“I will tell you a story,” Maya murmured, and her voice too seemed to be in my head, not my ears. It drowned out the other, screeching call. “Once upon a time, many years ago, there was a Jesuit priest who traveled to the court of a great emperor. He met fakirs and sages and heard of many wonders.”

A silver butterfly, hovered, settled on my arm. I listened to Maya, not moving a muscle.

“Father Monserrate had a servant called Jorge. A man both handsome and clever. He was far more adventurous than his master and when he looked at others, he brimmed with the knowledge that he was better. Jorge knew he was
special
. A desire to become even more special possessed him. If he gained spiritual powers, he thought, he would be better than all others.

“This servant did his chores, burning with the knowledge of his specialness. He watched his dull master and
marveled that he didn't seize wisdom and power. When the chance came he snatched it. He fled his master and came to this place, for a great sorcerer had given him the map you held. Here he found part of what he sought. But he was in grave danger.

“
Jorge wasn't ready
.

“We told him he wasn't ready. Be careful, we advised, some blessings are curses in disguise. The man was proud and greedy. He wouldn't listen. He only wanted to take, take and take more.

“He drank of the fountain and then he left this place. And the water's blessing of immortality became a curse. You see, it doesn't work, not away from this place. He lived all over the world, through many centuries, but his flesh shriveled. For years he wandered, an outcast. He couldn't find his way back to these mountains. He had lost the map, which was locked away in Baroda's treasure vaults. Recently, when he discovered the whereabouts of the map, Jorge plotted. He found these brothers; they were kindred spirits, for they too were cursed things. Together the Bakers and Jorge found the poor man who had once been a maharajah. Oh, how they schemed. They used himd and then killed him. Now Jorge stands before you a benighted thing.”

“Thing?” I said, slowly, still not comprehending. “Which thing?”

Maya's eyes moved to the monkey.