Patrick Woodhead - The Cloud Maker (2010)

As they continued forward, step by step, the boy swivelled his head within the man’s arms, watching the lights in the distance grow stronger. They climbed the mountain in two blurred vertical channels of fire. The boy’s hand instinctively went into the pocket of his sheepskin jacket, clutching the string of ornate prayer beads within. He worked them through his fingers one by one, the worn jade comforting to the touch.

Eventually the path grew wider, the scree on the ground becoming more compacted and worn from use. Large rocks had been moved out of the way and lay stacked along its edges in neat piles. The man stopped, letting Babu slip to the ground so that he was standing on his own feet and clasped his small hand in his. Before them, wide stone steps opened out, signifying the beginning of a vast stairway that led up into the blackness of the mountain.

The guide exhaled deeply, an exhausted smile appearing on his lips.

‘Well done, Babu. We’ve made it.’

The child tilted his head back so that their eyes met. He smiled.

‘I won’t forget you what you did for me,’ he said, his voice sounding older than his years.

The man simply nodded and swung his rucksack off his back. Reaching into one of the side pockets, he pulled out a small object wrapped in cloth. He unwound the fabric to reveal a delicate brass bell, the metal a dull gold in the moonlight.

‘Let them know we are home.’

Babu took the bell and swung it before him, so that a high-pitched chime cut through the still air. There was silence, man and boy waiting expectantly. Then suddenly, the sound of a vast horn answered from somewhere far above – a deep hollow note that seemed to resonate through every rock and stone on the mountainside. Babu squeezed the man’s hand fearfully. Returning the pressure gently, the man led them forward on to the first of the mighty stone steps.

As the two figures walked up, streaks of light began to separate into individual flames. Drawing level with the first of the burning torches, Babu noticed the silhouette of a figure seated behind it on the ground. Light from the flame played across the contours of his face, revealing a young man of possibly twenty years old, his hair shaved off and his head tilted backwards. His eyes were shut tight and he seemed oblivious to their passing.

Babu gazed around him, craning his neck to take in every detail. Behind each torch sat a figure in an identical pose, hundreds of them, all dressed in striking cornflower blue robes that were wound around their bodies so that only their right arms were exposed. The staircase stretched on and on and behind each torch was another blue-clad figure. As they climbed, flames crackled in the soft breeze, shooting off sparks which spiralled up into the night sky.

Then came the sound of singing. At first it was soft, barely audible, the pitch meandering between bass and tenor. Then more voices joined in, one building upon another, until the sound was flooding the mountainside in a beautiful, rolling chant.

Slowly Babu became aware of shapes looming out of the darkness. There were buildings, vast, sheer-walled buildings, ashen from the moonlight and stretching back into the mountain. As he pieced each impression together, trying to see where they began and finished, he felt a sudden jolt on his arm. His guide had come to an abrupt halt. They were standing at the top of the stairway which had opened out into a courtyard. A long line of trees cut through its centre while open braziers of burning logs were standing under archways in the surrounding walls.

Only a few feet ahead of them stood two monks, separate from the massed ranks of the others, both waiting with their hands clasped together in greeting. The smell of incense hung heavy in the air.

The guide bowed low before them.

‘ Namaste , venerable fathers,’ he said. ‘I request sanctuary for one who has been chosen.’

‘Why does he seek us?’ replied one of the monks, his voice hollow and rasping. He was ancient, with a thin, angular face bleached white by age. As he spoke, his eyes stared blindly in the direction of the guide.

‘Because yours is the true path.’

‘What will he do with our truth?’

‘He will serve the will of Buddha.’

After a respectful pause the second of the monks moved forward. He was younger, in his mid-fifties, and his lips were turning upward in the beginnings of a warm smile.

‘ Tashi delek , old friend,’ he said, standing before the guide. ‘You must be tired from the journey.’ Then, turning to Babu who stood staring up at him, ‘Welcome, child. The Abbot has requested that you go to him immediately.’

The monk reached out his hand, taking hold of Babus and made to lead him away, but the boy recoiled, clutching on to the leg of his guide. The man crouched down so that his face was level with the boy’s.

‘You must go with Dorje. He will protect you from now on. I can’t stay with you any longer.’

‘But who are they?’ asked Babu, his voice high-pitched and frightened.

‘They are . . . friends,’ replied the guide, unclasping the boy’s hand and gently pushing him forward. ‘Go with them.’

As the monk before them gave a short bow and turned to lead Babu through one of the archways in the courtyard behind, his elder colleague reached out a hand and stopped them.

‘This boy is not of age,’ he hissed.

‘I know.’

‘And what of the initiation?’ the older man continued, lowering his voice even further. ‘He must go before the Council.’

‘Not this one, Rega. I represent the Abbot on this.’

Babu gazed up at the old monk who stood blocking their way. His young face grew serious as it studied the strange milky irises that seemed to stare down at him from damaged eye sockets. Then he smiled, childish innocence flooding his face as he reached out and plucked the edge of the monk’s blue robe.

‘Don’t be upset, father. I will not be here long.’

Chapter 20

23 May 2005

A caravan of three yaks and four men toiled slowly across the dry Tibetan hills. The animals set the pace, a lumbering gait that varied little whether the trail led up or down. They followed the slow course of a muddy brown river with patches of green vegetation and stunted, windblown trees on its banks. The trees offered some shade against the midday heat but soon the path twisted again, up and away from the river, into the open plateau beyond.

Away to the south, Bill and Luca caught their first proper glimpses of the Himalayas. The snow-capped summits tore through a low bank of cloud like a jagged case of knives. Even from the distance, they looked colossal and forbidding.

Bringing up the rear of the caravan were two Tibetan yak drivers, Jigmi and Soa. They wore thick sheepskin jackets and felt boots that had been repaired so many times that the original fabric was almost completely lost to stitching. Between them they maintained a constant soundtrack, alternately yelling encouragement to the animals or, if they strayed a pace or two away from the pathway, hurling small pebbles at their woolly flanks.

Each day the group left before dawn and only stopped on the rare occasions when the trail branched. The yaks would jangle to a halt, awaiting further instruction, while Bill and Luca gulped down some iodised water, thankful for the break. At the back of the line, Jigmi and Soa barely drank or rested, seemingly oblivious to the sun and heat.

When they first set off from the road at Tingkye, they had passed a new village every few hours. Each was bustling and affluent, with whitewashed houses adorned with ornate, brightly coloured windowsills. On the flat roofs the women bundled cut hay, while out in the terraced fields the men worked the land. Clouds of dust hovered over entire villages, the hay a brilliant yellow in the sunlight.