Patrick Woodhead - The Cloud Maker (2010)

‘Yeah. It’s right here. Hold on a second.’

Ripping open the cylinder, Luca pulled out a large photocopied sheet of paper that was curled in on itself. Clamping the phone to his shoulder, he spread it out on the kitchen counter, using the empty bottle of Coke to hold down one edge. A beautifully detailed pen-and-ink drawing filled the entire piece of A3 paper. It had been rather clumsily photocopied, so that the bottom right-hand corner was missing, but as Luca realised what he was looking at, he felt his pulse quicken. A disbelieving smile crept across his face.

‘Holy shit, Jack! Where the hell did you find this?’

‘I thought you’d like it,’ he replied, a smile in his voice. ‘After you mentioned the word beyul , I did a little bit of research myself. That scroll is just the half of it.’

The picture showed eight snow-capped mountains forming in a perfect circle, and at its centre another mountain shaped like a pyramid. The artistry of the original work must have been spectacular. The detail was meticulous, every inch crowded with finely inked images and complex symbols.

In the centre, at the very summit of the pyramid, a priest was depicted, staring out from the page with the otherworldly detachment of someone deep in meditation. In his open hand was a symbol: a circle with eight points merging into a central triangle.

‘It’s called a thangKa ,’ Jack continued. ‘They were originally teaching scrolls, drawn by Tibetan Buddhist monks and passed on from monastery to monastery. And I found your pyramid mountain when I was looking though the Mahayana Sutras .’

‘The what?’

‘It’s a philosophical doctrine adopted by a certain sect of Buddhists. I was put on to it by one of the lecturers here in Cambridge, but they said the real people to talk to were from the Asian Studies Department.’

Luca’s voice rose in pitch. ‘But that pyramid is exactly what I saw from Makulu. This proves that the mountain actually exists!’

Jack laughed. ‘As a scholar, I can assure you that it doesn’t prove anything. You’ll need to find a few other corroborating sources before you can claim that.’

‘But Bailey’s book in the library,’ said Luca excitedly, his eyes falling on the photocopies stacked by his bed, ‘it mentioned that the pyramid mountain was in one of these beyuls .’

‘Again, that’s anecdotal. But you’re right, it is beginning to get interesting. Listen to what I discovered in the Sutra s.’ Jack paused, trying to find the right place in his notes. ‘So, according to this, the ring of mountains is supposed to depict the eight-fold path of a lotus flower. And then, right in the centre, is this mythical kingdom.’ He paused again as he tried to decipher his own spidery handwriting. ‘It’s called Shambhala .’

‘A mythical kingdom?’

‘Apparently so. It’s a place where the Lamas have moved on to some kind of higher spiritual plane. You know, total enlightenment and all that.’

Jack reached out one shaking hand and picked up his mug of coffee. Kingdoms of total enlightenment – Jesus, he could do with a bit of that around here.

‘What do you think this means?’ asked Luca.

‘Like I said, it might not be anything more than coincidence, but I thought it would give you a bit of a boost. I know how you get when you come back from a trip.’

Luca traced his fingers over the picture, his eyes fixed on the focal point. A ring of mountains with a pyramid at the centre . . . It just seemed incredible.

‘Thanks, Jack. That’s the best news I’ve had all day.’

‘Pleasure. And, in the meantime, I’ll send you this Mahayana book and you can read up about it for yourself. If you are serious about finding out some more, then I’ll make a few more enquiries and see if I can’t arrange a meeting or two.’

Putting the phone down, Luca walked over to his bedside table and fished out the folded satellite map. With a handful of drawing pins and a thick black marker pen in his left hand, he unfolded it and pinned it up on the patch of wallpaper at the end of his bed. He then wrote a single word in the bottom right hand corner.

BEYUL?

Chapter 12

His face was old as only a Tibetan face can be.

Lines cross-hatched their way across its leathery surface, like a paper bag that had been crumpled into a ball and hastily smoothed out. His dark brown eyes were set deep in their sockets, staring out from beneath long, straggling eyebrows. Around his body were wrapped thick red robes, but years of exposure to dirt and sunlight had faded them to almost the same colour as the ground.

The old monk sat on a pile of earth a few hundred yards from the entrance to Menkom village, but rarely turned from his vigil to look back at the thatched houses. Although a few thin wisps of smoke still trailed out from the chimneys into the cobalt sky, the village was almost completely still. It had been ravaged by disease for over a month, ever since the traders had come.

The first to fall ill were the old men, disappearing from their usual place by the side of the road. Then it spread: to young children, women, and finally the men working out in the fields. In just a few weeks, the once lively village had become ghostly and withdrawn.

Most people remained indoors, lying fever-ridden on the wooden floors of their homes, while outside cattle ambled through the streets untended. Small, black pigs poked their noses through piles of rubbish in the stream and chickens nested in the thatch rooftops. No stones were thrown at them, no voice raised to scare them away.

As the old monk watched, something distant on the pathway seemed to move then became stationary again. He got slowly to his feet, leaving his prayer wheel lying at his side, and squinted down on to the bare earth slopes of the lower valleys. Haloed by the late afternoon sun, he could just see a small cloud of dust hovering above a black shape. It was hazy, little more than a smudge merging into the horizon.

Gradually, the shape began to separate into its component parts: first, the outline of a yak’s great arching horns, then came the silhouettes of people following behind. Through the dust came a second yak, then another, until he could see an entire caravan of men and beasts toiling up the valley at a steady pace.

It was them. It had to be.

Finally the first of the yaks drew level with him, the heavy brass bell around its neck clanking with each step. Its huge flanks were dread locked with dust and dried mud, and on the arch of its withers heavy saddlebags were roped tight. As the mighty beast snorted, long strands of saliva oozed from its nose, beading with the dust from the pathway.

From somewhere near the back of the line, a voice called out above the noise. Amidst a ragged cacophony of bells the row of animals came to a juddering halt. With clothes stained grey from travel, a figure slipped off the back of one of the yaks and approached the monk. As she pulled away a filthy cloth from her face, the monk found himself looking at the dark suntanned cheeks and green eyes of a young woman clearly exhausted from her journey.

‘ Tashi delek , venerable father,’ she said, bowing her head to reveal long, black hair that was matted with dust. ‘We are looking for the gatekeeper.’

The old monk nodded, an unaccustomed smile creasing his face even further.

‘ Tashi delek ,’ he replied, in a voice hoarse from disuse. ‘I am he.’

With that he reached forward, clasping her hands in his and bringing them towards his heart. ‘I did not expect to see you until the solstice. But it is wonderful indeed that you have arrived safely. Our guide is ready to escort you when you have gathered your strength. He is a climber from your own country and has been looking forward to meeting you for many weeks now.’