Jamyang Norbu - The Mandala of Sherlock Holmes

The first day of the second moon of the Water Dragon Year.

The seal of the Grand Lama of Thibet.

Addendum: This passport it accompanied by two 'robes of the gods,' of the ashe, or middling quality, to welcome the honourable visitors.

The Thibetan who had been carrying the 'arrow missive/ -and who seemed to be some official functionary – reached into the folds of his robe and extracted two white silken scarves, the 'robes of the gods' grandly referred to in the passport. These scarves, generally called khatags, are used by Thibetans and other Tartars to grace every ceremony or occasion in their lives. They are used to welcome guests, to bid goodbyes, to petition lords, to worship the Buddha, to propitiate the gods, to celebrate weddings, and to mourn at funerals. The white colour of the scarves serves to denote the purity of the giver's motives.

He unfurled the scarves and, bowing low, handed one each to Mr Holmes and myself.

"pon my word,' said Holmes, accepting the scarf graciously, and making a slight bow in return. 'This is rather a singular turn of events. What do you make of it, Hurree?'

'By Gad, Sir, this takes the bally bun, if you ask me. My brain is totally at sixes and sevens – though I must say that the passport does appear to be genuine.'

'Oh, but it is,' said Asterman quickly, a note of consternation in his voice. 'The Chief Secretary of the Grand Lama himself has issued it and personally ordered its delivery to you. This…'he pointed to the square red seal on the document inscribed with minute Sanskrit letters, 'is the seal of the Grand Lama. There is no other like it in all of Thibet and Greater Tartary.'

Observing our quizzical expresions he added, 'Ah! I see that you require further explanation. Very well. We shall proceed to my encampment across the river, where you shall have rest, refreshments and answers. Your men and animals are there right now, all safe and sound.'

We crossed the bridge and, proceeding a few hundred yards up the track, came upon a level tract of land. A few cotton tents and a large shamiana were erected in a circle around a small fire. Kintup and the others were squatting on the ground by the fire, but when they saw us they came running to greet us. I noticed that Mr Holmes was touched by the evident happiness of the men to see us alive and unharmed. Kintup told us that they were sure we had been killed, especially after hearing the last thunderous discharge of weapons. They also thought that they themselves had been taken prisoner by one contingent of the bandits. Much to their relief, I was able to assure them that this was not so, and that Asterman and his men were our saviours rather than our captors.

Our 'saviour' ushered us to some low ottomans under the awning, and called for refreshments. It is strange how prejudices can alter the appearance of a person in one's eyes. Asterman now seemed to be a jolly decent sort of chap, nowhere approximating the role of the sinister 'Ferret Face' to which I had previously allocated him. He was somewhat garrulous though.

'Well, Sir, if you are to make any sense of it, I must tell you my story from the beginning.' Asterman took off his grimy topee to reveal a pink bony skull, sparsely covered with occasional strands of weathered grey hair. His thin, pinched face became very animated when he began to speak. 'I am, as you may have had occasion to observe, a Jew, Sir. An unhappy son of Shem, who because of history and circumstance has had to endure more than his share of the rigours of life.

'My family were originally from Alexandria, my father being the third son of David Asterman, one of the most prominent merchants of that city. But my father wanted to strike out on his own, and, taking his birthright, he and my mother set out for Calcutta, where he set himself up as a spice merchant. But he was improvident, Sir, and though he had only one failing – horses – it was enough to cause the ruination of our family and his own early demise of a broken heart. May his soul rest in peace. To support my old mother and my many brothers and sisters, I tried to operate a kabari, a second-hand shop at Bow Bazaar in Calcutta, but it was a disheartening venture. I lacked capital and skill, and try as I might I could never make enough money to raise my family above penury. But we were a pious family, Sir, and faithfully kept God's commandments. Though we were close to despair we did not lose faith in the Almighty. He had caused ravens to feed Elijah in the wilderness, surely he would not let us perish altogether. Then one day an unusual customer came to the shop.

'He was a young gendeman of medium stature and decidedly oriental features. He wore outlandish but rich silken robes, and was accompanied by a Kayeth, a bazaar letter-writer, who was obviously acting as his interpreter. The letter-writer explained to me that the gentleman was from Bhotiyal, or Thibet. The letter-writer had, a number of years ago, plied his trade up in the small township of Kalimpong, on the border of Thibet, and had picked up a bit of the language there. The Thibetan gentleman was desirous of obtaining a special item, and had approached a number of shops in the city for it, only to be turned away in disbelief and, occasionally, ridicule. Finally he had decided to give up. The letter-writer had urged him to make one last attempt, and had persuaded him to enter my humble shop. I attempted to set him at his ease, and politely enquired about the item he desired to purchase. He replied simply that he wanted a "thunderbolt"!

' "Now Jacob, my son," I told myself, "this is not the moment to display surprise or mirth. Fools do not wear such expensive silks (my grandfather had dealt extensively in silks and I knew a fine piece when I saw one), nor are they accompanied by interpreters to translate their follies. There may be some profit to be made in this, just at the cost of a little patience and courtesy."

'So I decided that there was a misunderstanding,' continued Asterman, taking a sip of tea, 'probably enlarged by the letter-writer's incompetence as an interpreter. I patiently questioned the Thibetan gentleman many times about the exact nature of the item he wanted, about its shape, colour and properties, but got nowhere. Then I remembered that in the collection of secondhand books in the shop, there was an old Thibetan-English dictionary that I had purchased from the effects of a deceased missionary. I rushed to the back of the shop and found it lying on a pile of musty Blackwoods magazines. The moment I showed the dictionary to the Thibetan gentleman I knew that our troubles were over. He was clearly an educated person – in his own way – for he flicked over the pages of the book eagerly till he found what he wanted. With a littie cry of satisfaction he pointed to a spot on the page, and urged me, in his queer gibberish, to look there.

'To be fair to the letter-writer, the literal translation of the Thibetan word was "thunderbolt", but what it actually meant, and what the Thibetan gentleman was actually looking for, was meteorite iron.

'I managed to obtain a quantity of it for him from a dealer who supplied minerals and geological specimens to schools and colleges. He paid me a handsome commission, and since then has used me to locate many strange and fabulous things. He himself was an official of the Grand Lama, and was seeking these things for his master. I never knew why he wanted them, and I did not think it my business to ask. For making magic, [28] maybe? Anyway, I was well recompensed for my troubles, though I had my occasional failures. But it is surprising what you can find, no matter how fantastic it may be, especially when you are being liberally paid to find it, and have carte blanche as to expenses. I could tell you some strange stories of my ventures for these things. Why, the single occasion when I had to bargain for a Phoenix egg from the treasure trove of the Grand Mage of Kafiristan, would make a more exciting tale than all of Mr Haggard's novels.'