The White Mirror (15 page)

“These instruments are all very advanced,” said Campo, returning it to its box. “Designed in Lower Saxony by a master craftsman. It has required enormous effort to carry them such a great distance. These are barbaric lands—I am told that thieves will beat and strip even those with nothing but the clothes on their backs. But sit, please.” He gestured to cushioned seats, then retrieved one of the braziers from its place beside the desk and set it near the window. They sat down opposite one another, Campo leaning forward into the transparent shimmer of heat.

“Did you travel here from Lhasa?” Li Du asked.

Campo nodded. “I left Rome five years ago. I was, for a time, in India. Brother Achille, who was in Lhasa already, requested that a companion be assigned to him for a journey of exploration. The Church sent me, and I met him there.” Campo sighed. “If it were not for Brother Achille's indefatigable good humor, I do not know how I could have stayed in this country as long as I have—what hardships we have endured.”

An almost imperceptible spasm crossed Campo's face, as if an insect had skittered across his cheek. “The high mountains are most terrible.” He raised an index finger marked by a ragged scar. “I cut my finger and felt no pain. I would not have noticed the injury if I had not seen the blood in the snow. Your body could be torn to pieces and you would be too cold to know it until you turned your eyes to observe your own destruction. There are bridges made of snow that crumble away under your feet. Nothing grows, they burn the dung of the animals for heat, and you cannot sleep for the lice that bite you. You cannot remove your coat for a moment or your breath will freeze in your chest. It is a terrible place. Terrible. There were times—” Campo's eyes now focused on Li Du with a kind of plea. His voice became a whisper. “There were times I almost cursed out loud.”

Li Du was about to respond, but Campo spoke again. “I did not call you here only to thank you.”

“What was your other purpose?”

“To warn you.” Campo's green eyes shone between pink, wind-beaten lids. “Stay away from the lama at the temple,” he said.

Li Du blinked in surprise. “You speak of the Chhöshe.”

Campo nodded. “I believe that he is the devil's novice, and that the devil, speaking with the tongue of his servant, seeks to do us harm. I fear it was he who goaded the painter to perform such abhorrent and grotesque violations upon himself.”

“What reason do you have to think so?”

Campo reached into a basket filled with pine tapers. He lifted the brazier's copper lid and piled them onto the little pile of embers. “I know all about them, these boys who are born and, before they can speak more than a few words, suddenly produce whole sentences about a previous life.”

Seeing that Campo had paused only to draw in a breath, Li Du waited. Campo went on. “I have definite proof,” he said, slowly, “that it is the devil who orchestrates this deception.”

“Definite proof?” Li Du lifted his eyebrows.

Campo sat back. “I will explain it to you. A lama of some high status dies, and goes, as he must, to the pit of hell. You know of hell?”

“A place of fire and punishment.” Li Du gave the answer distractedly. He was considering how he might turn Campo to the subject of his whereabouts on the morning of Dhamo's death.

“It is more complicated than that,” said Campo, “but yes, a place of fire and punishment. And while this lama's soul is there, the devil has the opportunity to speak to him, to question him on the secrets of his life: a description of his favorite hat, or where he hid his copper pot. With this information the devil returns to the world, takes possession of a small child, and whispers the secrets to him. Then, when the lamas and emissaries come to question the boy, he answers in the words of the man who has died. And thus he is pronounced by the lamas to be a reincarnation, and evil is perpetuated under the guise of a miracle.” Campo paused, slightly out of breath. “It is the only possible explanation.”

Li Du pulled off his hat, studying it while he considered a response. “Your argument may merit discussion, but I suspect that there are ways to refute it. For those who believe in—”

Campo interrupted him. “My opinion does not come just from theorizing.” Campo's fingers picked nervously at the calluses on his hands. “I saw it myself.”

“What did you see?”

Campo lifted his gaze up in the direction of the mountain. “The young lama—this Chhöshe, as he is called—appeared very peaceful when you observed him yesterday, but I know otherwise. I heard him rail and cry in the unearthly howls of the tormented.”

“What happened?”

“It was on the day he arrived. He came to the temple on the mountain, but he did not notice me in the shadows. He went to the altar and walked around it three times. Then he went to the door, and I heard him speaking to the boy who tends the goats. It was then that the fury took him.”

“He was upset?”

Campo looked defensive. “He was more than upset. The other one, poor youth, was bewildered. I think he tried to speak soothingly, but the lama would not listen. He ran alone into the snow. I left before he returned.”

“And what about the morning that Dhamo left the temple to go to the bridge? How did the Chhöshe behave then?”

Li Du thought he glimpsed wariness enter Campo's eyes. “You misunderstand,” said Campo. “I was not at the temple on
that
day. I was here. The rigors of surveying work take place not only in the outdoors with octants and tapes, but at a desk, with complex mathematical equations. You see.” He stood and led Li Du to the desk, on which were arranged papers covered in grids, circles, and rough outlines of what appeared to be mountains.

“Then you did not go to the village with the family.”

“No—I had seen it before and could make no connection with the people there, even with Andruk's help. I am afraid that out in these remote places the people are too uncivilized and rude to be receptive. They are not like you—a scholar's mind is better prepared to learn.”

“You were in your room the whole morning?”

This time, Li Du was certain he saw suspicion on Campo's face. He thought that Campo might challenge him on his reason for asking, but Campo did not. “I visited the cottage of the cheese maker,” he said. “But the children had been left to his care, and were riotous and unpleasant. I took some food and warmed my hands at the hearth, then returned, and was here until Andruk told me that the painter was dead. I hope never again to hear such a vile account.”

“As do I,” Li Du said. He stood up. “Again, I am relieved that you are unhurt.” He moved to the door, and was about to step out of the room when Campo said, very quietly, “It is a terrible sin to take your own life. For that alone he burns. My failure to save him pains me. But the painter's heart was as a piece of stone, and on it was engraved his own certain damnation. As it is written in the book of the all-virtuous wisdom of Sirach,
a hard heart shall have evils at the last.
”

*   *   *

The door to Sera-tsering's room was open, but she was not there. Li Du hesitated for a moment on the threshold. He looked to his right—his own room was two doors down—and to his left, past Hamza's room, to where the hallway angled sharply toward the kitchen. He checked the dark ladder stairs to the barley storage room. There was no one there. He paused for another instant, listening for sounds of someone approaching, then slipped inside.

Sera's room was similar to his own. A shrine occupied the corner behind a butter lamp with a white wick that had not been lit. Her possessions rested on the floor in another corner, twin leather saddlebags that had seen hard travel but were not old. Listening for steps outside and hearing none, he knelt in front of the bags and opened one.

Careful not to disarrange the contents, which were organized with precision, Li Du quickly ascertained that the bags contained nothing unusual. There were blankets and clothes rolled up tightly, tea bricks wrapped and tucked into clean pots, a heavy sack of rice or millet. He discovered a knife, a fine blade, heavier than it looked, with a sturdy hilt made for larger hands than Sera-tsering's.

He slipped the knife back into its place, and his fingers found the edge of a wooden box. He pulled it out gently and smiled in spite of himself when he undid the copper clasp and opened it to see an elegant writer's kit. It contained a cast-copper inkwell covered in leather, a delicate agate bowl for washing brushes, three bamboo brushes, ink sticks, needle and thread … The items were all familiar to Li Du. In one compartment was a red cylindrical seal tied in place with leather straps. He untied them and looked at the word on the seal. It was a Chinese name, a noble family, though not one that he knew personally.
Why is a woman from Lhasa carrying a Chinese seal?

Li Du returned the seal to its place, careful to tie the straps around it just as they had been. He was fumbling with the clasp of the box when he heard steps in the hallway outside, and felt the shudder of floorboards under his own feet. He put the box away, flipped the leather covers back over the packs, and stood up, searching his mind for an excuse. Just as he thought Sera herself would walk into the door, he saw two figures pass by and continue on past the room without stopping or glancing inside.

They went into the room between Sera's and Li Du's own—Sonam's room. Li Du stepped quietly to the wall and put his ear close to it.

“—you should remind them that you are a son of this house, not some village boy. Doso made a blood oath to your father.”

The voice that answered was Pema's. “But I could serve you—” The rest of his words were lost, but Li Du heard desperation in them.

“—honest with you. You are not built for it. The roads I travel are more difficult than you can imagine.”

“But if I could only come with you for a year.”

Sonam's voice became impatient. “If you stay here you will be lord of the manor when Doso dies. I will not permit you to risk your inheritance.”

“Two years ago at the spring festival you said that when I was old enough I could go with you, that you would take me to the sea and to temples big as mountains and forests where the flowers are as big as goats.”

Sonam laughed. “You overheard a conversation I was having with a woman. Women like to hear about colorful places. That was not meant for you. You belong here. Doso is a dull man. He will honor his promise to your father. He considers you his blood, even if he wishes—” Sonam stopped.

“I know what he wishes.” Li Du heard pain constricting Pema's throat. “They don't want me here. No one ever wanted me here.”

Li Du stepped back from the wall as a thump against it indicated an impatient fist striking the wood. “This is an easy life. Don't whine.”

Li Du remembered the glint in Pema's eyes the day before. There had been desperation in those eyes.

The door of Sonam's room swung open and thudded against the hallway wall. Li Du heard Pema's light steps, followed by the strike of a flint and clatter of a brazier lid in Sonam's room.

Li Du emerged into the hallway just in time to see someone come out of a door at the other end of it, moving with quiet, deft confidence. It was Sera-tsering. The room was his own.

She looked up and saw him. For an instant her expression froze. Then she smiled and raised her hands in a helpless gesture. “I am unused to staying in grand homes,” she said. “I walked into this room without thinking. Is it yours?”

Li Du looked over her shoulder at the door to his room, which she had pulled closed behind her. He saw her eyes flit briefly over his shoulder to her own door.

“Yes,” he said. “That room is mine.”

She looked away, brushing a speck of invisible dust from the sleeve of her coat. “You must be used to fine mansions—coming from the palace of the Chinese Emperor.”

“I have been away from Beijing long enough that I don't think I would be used to anything there, should I return.”

“And do you plan to return?”

“At present I am bound for Lhasa.”

She nodded. “Your caravan is not traveling by the usual route. Do you know why?”

“I do not,” said Li Du. “But I myself prefer remote paths to crowded ones.”

“These isolated valleys can be hazardous to those who are not familiar with them,” said Sera. “I heard about the foreigner's accident. He was not badly hurt, I hope.”

“No,” said Li Du. “But the shock of the fall debilitated him. We were fortunate to find help in the forest. From Lumo—I think you have met her.”

“Yes,” said Sera. “I visited her the day before yesterday.”

“So she told us. You were there all morning?”

Li Du thought he detected the briefest hesitation before Sera replied. “Yes.”

The sound of footsteps distracted her, and she turned her head to glance at the open door of Sonam's room. “Excuse me,” she said to Li Du. “I promised to help the lady of the house. There are often tenants from the village here to assist her, but with the snow, there is no one.”

Li Du watched Sera walk away down the hall, her dark coat blending with the shadows, until she turned the corner toward the kitchen and was lost to sight. He returned to his room and made a cursory inspection. Nothing was missing. He gathered his coat tightly around his shoulders, adjusted his hat, and exited, closing the door tight behind him.

As he went by Sonam's room, he glanced inside. Sonam was sitting on a chair, a saddlebag open in front of him and some of its contents scattered across the floor. He was holding a folded paper. As Li Du passed the door, Sonam raised his head and looked for a moment at Li Du. Without saying anything, he returned his attention to his possessions, thrusting the folded paper back into the bag. Li Du continued down the hallway, the imprint of Sonam's cold, speculative stare deep in his mind.