Douglas Child - The Wheel of Darkness

Finally, after what felt like an endless journey, they came to another door, this one bound in bands of oiled iron, riveted into thick plates. Another key was brandished, and with some effort the door was unlocked and opened.

The room beyond was small and dim, illuminated by a single butter lamp. The walls were lined in ancient, hand-rubbed wood, meticulously inlaid. Fragrant smoke drifted in the air, pungent and resinous. It took Pendergast’s eyes a moment to adjust to the extraordinary fact that the chamber was packed full of treasure. Against the far wall sat dozens of caskets in heavy repoussé gold, their lids tightly locked; next to them stood stacks of leather bags, some of which had rotted and split, spilling their contents of heavy gold coins—everything from old English sovereigns and Greek staters to heavy gold mughals. Small wooden kegs were stacked around them, the staves swollen and rotted, spilling out raw and cut rubies, emeralds, sapphires, diamonds, turquoises, tourmalines, and peridots. Others seemed filled with small gold bars and oval Japanese kobans.

The wall to his right contained a different kind of treasure: shawms and kangling horns made of ebony, ivory, and gold, and encrusted with gems; dorje bells of silver and electrum; human skullcaps trimmed in precious metals and glowing with turquoise and coral inlay. In another area stood a crowd of statues in gold and silver, one adorned with hundreds of star sapphires; nearby, nestled in wooden crates and straw, he could see translucent bowls, figures, and plaques of the finest jade.

And to his immediate left, the greatest treasure of all: hundreds of cubbyholes stuffed with dusty scrolls, rolled thangkas, and bundles of parchment and vellum tied in silk cords.

So astonishing was the display of treasure that it took Pendergast a moment to realize a human being was sitting, cross-legged, on a cushion in the near corner.

The monk who had brought him now bowed, hands together, and withdrew, the iron door clanging behind him, the lock turning. The cross-legged monk gestured toward a cushion beside him. “Please sit down,” he said in English.

Pendergast bowed and seated himself. “A most remarkable room,” he replied. He paused a moment. “And a most unusual incense.”

“We are the guardians of the monastery’s treasures—the gold and silver and all other transitory things the world considers wealth.” The man spoke in a measured and elegant English, with an Oxbridge accent. “We are also stewards of the library and the religious paintings. The ‘incense’ you note is the resin of the dorzhan-qing plant—burned ceaselessly to keep the worms at bay—ravenous woodworms indigenous to the high Himalayas that seek to destroy everything in this room made of wood, paper, or silk.”

Pendergast nodded, taking the opportunity to examine the monk more closely. He was old, but wiry and astonishingly fit. His red-and- saffron robes were tightly wound, and his head was shaven. His feet were bare and almost black with dirt. His eyes gleamed in a smooth, ageless face that radiated intelligence, anxiousness, and grave concern.

“No doubt you’re wondering who I am, and why I have asked you to come,” the monk said. “I am Thubten. Welcome, Mr. Pendergast.”

“Lama Thubten?”

“We have no distinguishing titles here in the inner temple.” The monk leaned toward him, peering closely at his face. “I understand that your business in life is to—I am not sure how to put it—to pry into the affairs of others, to put right what has been wronged? To solve riddles, shine light onto mystery and darkness?”

“I have never heard it put quite that way. But yes, you’re correct.”

The monk sat back, relief evident on his face. “That is good. I feared perhaps I was mistaken.” Then his voice fell almost to a whisper. “There is a riddle here.”

There was a long silence. Then Pendergast said, “Go on.”

“The abbot cannot speak of this matter directly. That is why they have asked me to do so. Yet even though the situation is dire, I find it . . . difficult to talk about. ”

“You have all been kind to me and my ward,” said Pendergast. “I welcome the opportunity to do something in return—if I can.”

“Thank you. The story I am about to tell you involves revealing some details of a secret nature.”

“You can count on my discretion.”

“First I will tell you a little of myself. I was born in the remote hill country of Lake Manosawar in western Tibet. I was an only child, and my parents were killed in an avalanche before my first birthday. A pair of English naturalists—a husband-and-wife team doing an extensive survey of Manchuria, Nepal, and Tibet—took pity on such a young orphan and informally adopted me. For ten years I stayed with them as they traveled the wilds, observing, sketching, and taking notes. Then one night a roving band of soldiers came upon our tent. They shot both the man and the woman, and burned them with all their possessions. I alone escaped.

“Losing two sets of parents—you can imagine my feelings. My lonely wanderings took me here, to Gsalrig Chongg. In time I took a vow and entered the inner monastery. We devote our lives to extreme mental and physical training. We occupy ourselves with the deepest, the most profound, and the most enigmatic aspects of existence. In your study of Chongg Ran, you have touched upon some of the truths that we plumb to an infinitely greater depth.”

Pendergast inclined his head.

“Here in the inner monastery, we are cut off from all existence. We are not permitted to look upon the outside world, to see the sky, to breathe fresh air. All is focused on turning within. It is a very great sacrifice to make, even for a Tibetan monk, and that is why there are only six of us. We are guarded by the anchorite, not allowed to speak to an outside human being, and I have violated that sacred vow to speak with you now. That alone should help impress upon you the seriousness of the situation.”

“I understand,” Pendergast said.

“We have certain duties here as monks of the inner temple. In addition to being keepers of the monastery’s library, relics, and treasure, we are also the keepers of . . . the Agozyen.”

“The Agozyen?”

“The most important object in the monastery, perhaps in all of Tibet. It is kept in a locked vault, over in that corner.” He pointed to a niche carved in the stone, with a heavy iron door, which was hanging ajar. “All six monks gather here once a year to perform certain rituals of warding over the vault of the Agozyen. When we performed this duty in May, a few days before you arrived, we found the Agozyen was no longer in its place.”

“Stolen?”

The monk nodded. “Who has the key?”

“I do. The only one.”

“And the vault was locked?”

“Yes. Let me assure you, Mr. Pendergast, that it is quite impossible for one of our monks to have committed this crime.”

“Forgive me if I am skeptical of that assertion.”

“Skepticism is good.” He spoke with peculiar force and Pendergast did not reply. “The Agozyen is no longer at the monastery. If it was, we should know.”

“How?”

“That is not to be spoken of. Please believe me, Mr. Pendergast—we

would

know. None of the monks here have taken the item into their possession.”

“May I take a look?”

The monk nodded.

Pendergast rose and, taking a small flashlight from his pocket, went over to the vault and peered at the round keyhole of the lock. After a moment he examined it with a magnifying glass.

“The lock’s been picked,” he said, straightening up.

“I am sorry. Picked?”

“Coaxed open without the use of a key.” He glanced at the monk. “Forced, actually, by the looks of it. You say none of the monks could have stolen it. Have there been other visitors to the monastery?”