Michael Morpurgo - King of the Cloud Forests

That evening we were amongst a dozen or so fellow pilgrims gathered together in an isolated farmhouse. We were relieved to have found it for outside the weather was worsening. We were talking and eating together in a first floor room – like all Tibetan houses, the ground floor was the stables. I was looking out of the window and up towards the mountains, trying to ignore the inquisitive eyes of the farmer’s children, when the lama came in through the door. He was dressed in a humble travelling robe tied around the middle with a red belt, and he wore a tall, red cap on his head. The children were silenced for a few moments and settled down to stare at him. Some meat and freshly dug turnips were cut up unwashed and thrown into the pot. When he had finished eating, each of the pilgrims asked him for an omen, or ‘mo’ as they call it in Tibetan. I knew enough of the Tibetan language now to make some sense of what was being said – Uncle Sung had seen to that. The lama answered each pilgrim patiently in low, considered tones and then turned to Uncle Sung. ‘You do not ask for “mo”,’ he said. ‘Do you fear for what lies ahead?’

‘No,’ said Uncle Sung. ‘I have no desire to know what will happen to me on this earth, and what happens to me afterwards I shall deserve – that’s all I know. We decide for ourselves. It is in our hands, is it not?’ The lama nodded and smiled.

‘And your companion?’ said the lama.

‘He is my son, Zong Ho,’ said Uncle Sung.

‘Bring him where I can see him.’

Uncle Sung nudged me to my feet. Reluctantly I got up and stood in the circle of pilgrims, looking down at the lama. He looked me in the eye for long and dangerous moments. I could not hold his gaze. I looked down to Uncle Sung and he smiled encouragement. I was confident enough in my disguise, indeed so confident by now that I had even forgotten that I was at risk, but this man was not looking at my clothes nor at my skin. His eyes reached into my soul and found me out. I felt like running, but the way to the door was blocked by the farmer’s family who had crowded into the room. There was no escape.

‘He does not speak,’ said Uncle Sung. ‘Since the day he was born he has never spoken a word.’

The lama’s eyes never left my face. And then he spoke very slowly and with great deliberation. ‘You have a fine son but he has the blue eyes of a “philling”,’ he said. The word sent a shiver of suspicion around the room. The lama held up his hand. I think Uncle Sung and I then acted better than we ever dreamed we could. I feigned furious outrage, and blew my nose with my fingers and Uncle Sung cursed all phillings roundly for good measure.

‘My son’s eyes,’ he finished angrily, ‘are an accident of birth as is his dumbness. Would you blame him for that?’

‘I did not mean any offence,’ said the lama. ‘But he has strangely light eyes for one of our country. He is taller than you, taller than any grown man in this room – and he has the giant feet of a yeti. But it is not his great size that troubles me. There is something about him that tells me he is not like one of us. I see a ruler standing before me. I tell you, this boy of yours will be a king, and soon.’ The lama had his eyes closed now and was speaking in a whisper. ‘He will be a king of the cloud forests. He will rule among the clouds.’ He opened his eyes. ‘That is all I can tell. Ask me no more.’

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