The Wheel of Darkness (47 page)

Kemper stared at the man in surprise. “There’s no need to tip the ship’s officers,” he said curtly.

“I think you’ll want this tip,” Pendergast replied, extracting an oilskin-wrapped package from the valise. He extended it toward Kemper.

“What’s this?” Kemper asked, taking the package.

The man said nothing more. He merely turned, and then he and the woman melted back into the early-morning shadows, heading toward the moving masses of people.

LeSeur watched as Kemper untied the oilskin.

“Looks like your three hundred thousand pounds,” he said, as Kemper stared in silent astonishment at the soiled bundles of notes.

“Strangest man I ever met,” Kemper said, almost as if speaking to himself.

LeSeur didn’t hear him. He was thinking again of that demon-haunted shroud that had engulfed Captain Mason.

S
UMMER HAD FINALLY COME TO THE
L
LÖLUNG
V
ALLEY. THE
Tsangpo River roared over its cobbled bed, fed by melting snows in the great mountains beyond. Flowers mortared the cracks and hollows of the valley floor. Black eagles soared above the cliffs, their high-pitched cries echoing from the great wall of granite at the valley’s head, mingling with the steady roar of the waterplume leaping off its rim and feathering down onto the rocks below. Beyond rose up the three massive peaks, Dhaulagiri, Annapurna, and Manaslu, swathed in eternal glaciers and snow, like three cold and remote kings.

Pendergast and Constance rode side by side up the narrow track, trailing a pack pony on whose back was tied a long box wrapped in a canvas manty.

“We should be there before sunset,” Pendergast said, gazing at the faint trail that wound up the granite face.

They rode on for a while in silence.

“I find it curious,” Pendergast said, “that the West, so advanced in many ways, is still in the dark ages when it comes to understanding the deepest workings of the human mind. The Agozyen is a perfect example of how much more advanced the East is in this area.”

“Do you have any further thoughts on how it might work?”

“As a matter of fact, by coincidence I read an article in the
Times
that might shed some light on it. It was about a recently discovered mathematical object known as E8.”

“E8?”

“E8 was discovered by a team of scientists at MIT. A supercomputer, running for four years, had to solve two hundred billion equations in order to draw an image of it—an admittedly very imperfect image. There was a crude reproduction in the newspaper, and when I saw it I was struck by its resemblance to the Agozyen mandala.”

“What does it look like?”

“It’s quite indescribable, an incredibly complex image of interlocking lines, points, and surfaces, spheres within spheres, occupying nearly two hundred and fifty mathematical dimensions. They say E8 is the most symmetrical object possible. Even more than that, physicists think that E8 may be a representation of the deep inner structure of the universe itself, the actual geometry of space-time. Incredible to think that, a thousand years ago, monks in India somehow discovered this extraordinary image and committed it to a painting.”

“Even so, I don’t understand. How could just looking at something like that alter one’s mind?”

“I’m not sure. The geometry of it somehow lights up the neural networks of the brain. It creates a resonance, if you will. Perhaps on a deep level our brains themselves reflect the fundamental geometry of the universe. The Agozyen is a rare intersection of neurology, mathematics, and mysticism.”

“Extraordinary.”

“There are many things the dull Western mind has yet to appreciate about Eastern philosophy and mysticism. But we’re starting to catch up. Scientists at Harvard, for example, have just begun to study the effect of Tibetan meditative practice on the mind—and to their amazement they discovered that it actually causes permanent physical changes in the brain and body.”

They reached a crossing of the Tsangpo. The river was shallow and broad at the ford, running merrily over a shallow bed of cobbles, the rushing sound of water filling the air. Gingerly their horses stepped into the torrent and picked their way across. They came out on the far side and continued on.

“And the smoke ghost? Is there some kind of scientific explanation for that?”

“There’s a scientific explanation for everything, Constance. There are no such things as miracles or magic—only science we haven’t yet discovered. The smoke ghost was, of course, a tulpa, or ‘thoughtform’—an entity created through an act of intense, focused imagination.”

“The monks taught me some of the tulpa-creation techniques, but they warned me of the danger.”

“It’s extremely dangerous. The phenomenon was first described to the West by the French explorer Alexandra David-Néel. She learned the secrets of creating a tulpa not far from here, near Lake Manosawar. As a lark she tried it out and, it seems, began visualizing a plump, jolly little monk named Friar Tuck. At first, the monk existed only in her mind, but in time he began to take on a life of his own, and she glimpsed him at odd moments, flitting about her camp and frightening her fellow travelers. Things went downhill; she lost control of the monk and it began to morph into something bigger, leaner, and far more sinister. It took on a life of its own—just like our smoke ghost. She tried to destroy it by reabsorbing it into her mind, but the tulpa strenuously resisted and the end result was a psychic battle that almost killed David-Néel. The tulpa on board the
Britannia
was the creation of our friend Blackburn—and it
did
kill him.”

“So he was an adept.”

“Yes. He traveled and studied in Sikkim as a young man. He realized immediately what the Agozyen was, and how it could be used—much to Jordan Ambrose’s misfortune. It was no concidence it ended up with Blackburn; there was nothing at all random in its movements through the world. You might say the Agozyen
sought
Blackburn out, using Ambrose as a medium. Blackburn, with his billions and his dot-com savvy, was in a perfect position to spread the image of the Agozyen across the globe.”

They traveled a moment in silence. “You know,” Constance said, “you never did explain to me how you sent the tulpa after Captain Mason.”

Pendergast did not answer immediately. Clearly, the memory was still extremely painful. At last, he spoke. “When I freed myself from its grasp, I allowed a single image to form in my mind: the Agozyen. In essence, I implanted that image in the tulpa. I gave it a new desire.”

“You changed its prey.”

“Exactly. When the tulpa left us, it sought out the other living beings who had gazed on the Agozyen—and, in the case of Mason, somebody who was, indirectly at least, bent on its destruction. And the tulpa annihilated them both.”

“And then?”

“I have no idea where it went. Things having come full circle, as it were, perhaps it returned to whatever plane it was summoned from. That, or it simply vanished with the death of its creator. It would be interesting to hear the views of the monks on this question.”

“So it was an agent for good in the end.”

“One could say that—although I doubt goodness is a concept that it would either understand or care about.”

“Nevertheless, you used it to save the
Britannia
.”

“True. And as a result I feel a little less mortified at having been wrong.”

“Wrong? How?”

“Assuming all the killings were the work of one person—a passenger. In point of fact, Blackburn only killed one person—and he did that on dry land.”

“In the most bizarre of ways. It seems that the Agozyen lifts the lid, as it were, unleashing the most buried of a person’s violent and atavistic impulses.”

“Yes. And that’s what confused me—the similar M.O. I assumed the murders had all been committed by the same person, when I should have understood that there were two different killers under the influence of the same malevolent
effect
—the effect of the Agozyen.”

They had reached the base of the trail going up the cliff. Pendergast dismounted and, in a gesture of prayer, placed his hand upon the huge
mani
stone at the base. Constance followed, and they proceeded up the trail, leading their horses by the reins. At last, they reached the top, passed through the ruined village, and finally came around the shoulder of the mountain, spying the pinnacled roofs, towers, and sloping ramparts of the Gsalrig Chongg monastery. They passed the scree slope covered with weathered bones—the vultures had departed—and arrived at the monastery.

The gate in the outer stone wall opened almost before they had reached it. Two monks met them; one led off the two riding horses while Pendergast unpacked the cargo from the pony. He tucked the box under his arm, and he and Constance followed the monk through the ironbound doors into the monastery’s dark interior, fragrant with sandalwood and smoke. Another monk appeared with a brass candleholder and led them deeper into the monastery.

They came to the room with the golden statue of Padmasambhava, the Tantric Buddha. The monks had already gathered on the stone benches, presided over by the ancient abbot.

Pendergast placed the box on the floor and seated himself on one of the benches. Constance sat next to him.

Tsering rose. “Friend Pendergast and Friend Greene,” he said, “we welcome you back to monastery of Gsalrig Chongg. Please take tea with us.”

Cups of sweet buttered tea were brought out and enjoyed in silence. Then Tsering spoke again.

“What have you brought us?”

“The Agozyen.”

“This is not its box.”

“The original box did not survive.”

“And the Agozyen?”

“Inside—in original condition.”

A silence. The ancient abbot spoke, and then Tsering translated. “The abbot would like to know: did anyone look upon it?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Five.”

“And where are they now?”

“Four are dead.”

“And the fifth?”

“I was the fifth.”

When this was translated the abbot rose abruptly and stared. He then walked over to Pendergast, grasped him with a bony hand, and pulled him to his feet with astonishing force. He stared into his eyes. Minutes passed in the silent room—and then the abbot finally spoke.

“The abbot say this extraordinary,” Tsering translated. “You burn off the demon. But you remain damaged, because once you experience ecstasy of the pure freedom of evil, you can never forget that joy. We will help you, but we can never make you whole.”

“I’m already aware of that.”

The abbot bowed. He bent down and picked up the box, handing it to another monk, who carried it off.

“You have our eternal thanks, Friend Pendergast,” said Tsering. “You have accomplished great feat—at great cost.”

Pendergast remained standing. “I’m afraid it isn’t quite over yet,” he replied. “You have a thief in your midst. It seems that one of your monks thought the world was ripe for cleansing and arranged for the theft of the Agozyen. We still must find that monk and stop him from doing it again—or the Agozyen will never be safe.”

Once this was translated, the abbot turned and looked at him, his eyebrows slightly raised. There was a hesitation. Then the abbot began to speak. Tsering turned to translate. “The abbot say you are correct, it is not over. It is not the end, but the beginning. He ask me to tell you certain important things. Please, sit down.”

Pendergast seated himself, as did the abbot.

“After you left, we discovered who released Agozyen into world, and why.”

“Who?”

“It was the holy lama in the wall. The ancient one.”

“The immured anchorite?”

“Yes. Jordan Ambrose fascinated by this man and speak to him. The lama let Ambrose into inner monastery, talk him into stealing Agozyen. But not to cleanse the world. Lama have other reason.”

“Which was?”

“It is difficult to explain. Before you arrive in spring, his holiness the Ralang Rinpoche die. He is eighteenth incarnation of the Rinpoche who founded this monastery long time ago. We cannot continue as a monastery without our incarnated teacher. And so, when a Rinpoche dies, we must go out into world to find his reincarnation. When we do, we bring child back to the monastery and raise it as next Rinpoche. This has always been our way. When the seventeenth Rinpoche died in 1919 Tibet was free country, and it was still possible to go out and find his reincarnation. But now the eighteenth Rinpoche is dead, and Tibet occupied. Free travel for Tibetan monks is very difficult and dangerous. Chinese arrest Tibetan monks on missions like this, beat them, sometimes kill them. The holy man in wall knows many deep things. He knew of prophecy that say:
when
we cannot go out and find new Rinpoche, then new Rinpoche
will
come to Gsalrig Chongg instead. We will know this Rinpoche, because he will fulfill the prophecy written in our founding holy text of the monastery. It say:

When the Agozyen walks the Western Sea,

And darkness upon darkness wheel,

The waters shall rise up in fury,

And batter the great palace of the deep,

And ye shall know the Rinpoche by his guardian,

Who shall return with the Green Tara,

Dancing across the waters of the Western Sea,

From the ruined palace of the deep.

“So to test prophecy, holy man release Agozyen into the world to see who will bring it back. Because man who bring it back is the guardian of the nineteenth Rinpoche.”

Pendergast felt an emotion rare to him: utter surprise.

“Yes, friend Pendergast, you have brought the nineteenth Rinpoche to us.” Tsering looked at Pendergast with a slightly amused expression. And then he focused a pointed gaze on Constance.

She rose. “The guardian of the . . . excuse me, are you saying
I’m
the reincarnation of the Rinpoche? But that’s absurd—I was born long before he died.”