Patrick Woodhead - The Cloud Maker (2010)

After escaping from one village under a hail of arrows and spears, the pair recouped in the dense jungle. Morshead had been hit no less than eleven times, with Bailey’s only further comment on this being a terse: ‘What a sanguine reminder it was of how hard it is to kill a man in sound health.’

Luca’s smile faded suddenly. God, what had happened to explorers nowadays? One dose of malaria, or a toe lost to frostbite, and they called in the helicopters. In the old days, explorers would disappear from the face of the earth for years. And they literally did disappear. They weren’t calling in every five minutes from a satellite phone or updating their website with the latest news. These men struck off into the wilderness, alone and utterly cut off from the rest of the world. They pioneered the trails. They drew the maps.

Somehow life today had become so tepid. It took such an effort to actually get away from anything familiar that escape itself became the point of the expedition, rather than any discovery that might arise from it.

Something was catching the corner of his eye. Luca looked up to see that his mobile was flashing silently on the desk. Picking it up, he saw that it was his father calling. With a sigh, he put it down again. He must have heard the news that he was back – either that or it was a very lucky guess. Then again, his father always did have a sixth sense for that kind of thing.

Turning his phone face downwards, Luca exhaled before looking down at the book again.

Despite a tantalising reference to ‘that vast, unmapped region east of Makalu’, there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary about the mountains Bailey and his companion had gone hiking through. A few pages later, Luca was skimming through the explorers’ experiences with a more benign tribe, the Monpa, when he nearly missed a brief diary extract:

The local Monpa describe the Tsangpo river gorge as a ‘beyul’. After much vague discussion with the chief, we discovered this term to mean some sort of highly sacred sanctuary, but from what it was impossible to discern. On further discussion we were told that there are many such sanctuaries throughout Tibet, hidden in the most inaccessible regions.

We enquired as to the whereabouts of these other sacred places and only after much cajoling (and nearly half our supply of expedition gin) did the little fellow let on. Drawing a picture of a lotus flower in the dirt, he described a group of mountains, formed into a circle. At their centre, another mountain, which is supposedly the gateway to some sacred place.

Rather amusingly, when asked where the ring of mountains was, he replied that it had been made invisible by a great sorcerer. He claimed that one had to use the wisdom from a book called the Kalak Tantra to see inside it, but as with all these things, the Tibetan villagers’ penchant for the mystic is seemingly endless. It really is quite impossible to get things clear.

We decided to stick to the matter in hand and concentrate on getting into our own river gorge ‘beyul’.

Luca looked up from the page, his mouth suddenly dry. These were his mountains. They had to be.

So what did Bailey mean that they had been ‘made invisible by a great sorcerer’?

One thing Luca knew about Tibetans was that they loved anything supernatural. To them, gods literally roamed the heights and demons lived in the valleys. Almost every occurrence, even simple things such as bad weather or failing crops, was explained as an act of magic and sorcery.

Luca looked up through one of the long windows at the moody English sky. White clouds shrouded the tops of the city’s spires. Cloud . . . that was it! Within this context, the chief’s assertions about a great sorcerer having cast a spell over the mountains made perfect sense. The clouds themselves had rendered the centre of the mountain ring invisible, just as they had on the satellite map.

Standing up, Luca shuffled the books into a neat stack and then made his way over to the photocopying machine.

He wasn’t exactly sure what it was he had discovered, but he was getting closer.

He could feel it.

Chapter 8

Two monks stood on the roof of Tashilhunpo Monastery, their heads bowed in sorrow.

Usually the rarified mountain light reflected off the golden rooftops, making it unbearably hot and bright. But today was different. Dark cloud had rolled in from the east, blanketing the sky and threatening rain.

Below them, the city of Shigatse stretched across the plains. Squat, white houses sprawled out from the central hub of the monastery in chaotic tentacles, blurred together by the grey light. The people on the streets moved with a heavy listlessness brought on by the humidity. Rain was uncommon this high on the plateau and it was as if the whole city was holding its breath, waiting for the skies to finally break.

‘Jigme, we must always remember our duty and never give up hope,’ said the taller of the monks, resting a consoling hand on his shoulder. ‘The Gelugpas from Lhasa will have some idea of how to proceed.’

‘How to proceed?’ echoed the other monk bitterly. ‘The eleventh Panchen Lama has been murdered before he even reached Shigatse. And he was just a boy. Just a boy! Now nothing will stop the Chinese . . .’

He brought his hands to his mouth, as if the words themselves could somehow inflict further damage. Above them, the first specks of rain hit the ramparts of the monastery roof, congealing in the layers of dust.

‘It is inevitable,’ admitted the taller monk. ‘The Chinese will install their own candidate and crown him on the first day of June in the solar calendar, at the Linka Festival. But we must not give up hope.’

As the rain began to quicken, both monks remained where they stood. Drops splashed on to their heavy robes and shaved heads, beading down the sides of their faces like tears. Both felt too exhausted to move, as if the rain somehow reflected the way the whole world was feeling.

It had all happened so suddenly. They had both presumed since the death of their former leader that it would take years for his reincarnation to be found. Yet, without their even knowing that the search had officially begun, news had come through that the young boy had been murdered, shot before he had even stepped out of his village.

With the Dalai Lama in permanent exile in Dharamsala, the Panchen Lama, the Bodhisattva of Wisdom, was the practical ruler of the country. It was under his decree that the Tibetan people were governed and the rule of law maintained. Now the same question ran through both men’s minds as it had done all morning: how could Tibet protect itself from the Chinese if their next leader was one of them?

A soft rumbling announced a motorcade of vehicles pulling into the monastery’s main entrance. Three stretch saloon Mercedes with blacked-out windows slowly eased their way across the drive’s ancient flagstones. They crunched to a halt before the main entrance. As soon as they caught sight of the cars, the two monks turned soundlessly and hurried down the spiral staircase that led from the roof into the courtyard below.

They arrived, breathless, just as the last of a large group of dignitaries exited the cars.

‘We are honoured by your visit,’ said the taller monk, bowing low. ‘You bring solace in difficult times.’

He stepped back as a very old man in a vast yellow hat and red robes moved ahead of his entourage, a wooden cane gripped in his hand. The Head Lama of the Gelugpa sect briefly nodded a greeting to them both before allowing himself to be ushered into the main hall of Tashilhunpo Monastery, where a multitude of novices were preparing tea and refreshments on a long wooden table.

‘Get rid of these people,’ he said, glancing around at the bustling young monks. ‘What I have to say is for your ears alone.’