Patrick Woodhead - The Cloud Maker (2010)

Behind one of the endless lines of open windows a monk stared out, his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes half-closed as they squinted against the glare of the sun. His normally placid expression had sharpened. A deep vertical worry line creased the centre of his forehead. He breathed in deeply, nostrils flaring as they drew in cool air from outside, and tried to steady his nerves.

His eyes followed the same line of jagged peaks he had witnessed each morning for the last thirty-six years. But today he looked upon the mountains afresh, each knife-edged ridge and towering summit so magnificent and perfect that he could scarcely believe the beauty of them all. It was only now that he felt such awe. Only now that he knew they were threatened.

The monk slowly shook his head. Thirty-six years since he had first arrived at Geltang, and in all that time he had never felt as uncertain as he did right now. Despite all their preparations, despite their every precaution, the impossible had happened: foreigners had finally discovered the monastery.

Swivelling round, the monk set off down the corridor with unaccustomed haste. Passing the nearest flight of steps, he turned left at the end of the corridor, then right, coming to a halt in front of a heavy gilded door. He raised his hand to knock, then stopped, his head slumping forward until his forehead was resting against the wooden doorframe.

He had to get Rega to agree with him.

Rega and he were equals in the monastery, second only to His Holiness the Abbot. They had ruled every facet of the order for over a decade while the Abbot gradually withdrew into himself, as custom dictated. As his enlightenment became such that he reached the highest levels of the Wheel of Life, so his introspection grew. Now the Abbot was almost never seen outside his quarters, becoming a hermit within his own monastery.

Their once-great leader, the monk who had first begun the long and dangerous process of bringing the treasure to Geltang, was now so detached from life at the monastery that he had become almost a myth within his own lifetime. As each year passed and the Abbot’s concerns grew ever-more esoteric, the daily responsibilities of running the monastery had increasingly been delegated to them.

In the present crisis, it was vital that the frayed network of alliances throughout their order be pulled together rather than allowed to splinter apart. A schism would threaten the very heart of all they held secret.

Lifting his chin up and smoothing his robe, Dorje knocked firmly on the door and entered.

The room was badly lit, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark. The only source of light was a narrow window in the far corner and the huge, vaulted room seemed to swim in a grey half-light.

Rega sat on a massive wooden chair, raised on a dais in the centre. His angular body slumped back against it, dwarfed by the chair’s giant frame. Standing to one side was a second figure, its identity lost in the shadows. It turned at the sound of Dorjeapproach and the monk immediately recognised the muscular form of Rega’s chief aide, Drang.

Rega looked up, his blind eyes fixing unerringly on the new arrival.

‘Dorje,’ he said, the word more a fact that a form of greeting.

Dorje gave a brief nod before striding purposefully forward, coming to a halt a few paces away from the chair. He glanced at Drang, standing to one side.

‘Leave us,’ he said with a wave of dismissal.

For the briefest of moments Drang’s eyes fixed on Rega. Then he bowed low, keeping his eyes locked on Dorje, before retreating silently from the room.

‘I have come to decide with you what must be done,’ Dorje said, standing with his hands folded in front of him. ‘We need to make our recommendation to His Holiness.’

Rega’s cowled head slowly tilted to one side.

‘You know as well as I do what must be done,’ he said, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘It is whether you have the courage to make that choice.’

Dorje paused before asking, ‘So what would you have us do?’

Rega’s hands lay open across his lap as if appealing to the heavens.

‘We cannot risk them ever leaving. From this day onward, the Westerners must be forced to stay at Geltang.’

Dorje exhaled slowly, glancing away from Rega’s lifeless gaze and staring towards the window and its single shaft of light.

‘You know we cannot do that. Not since our order was founded has such a course ever been followed . . .’

‘Nor have we ever had such visitors!’ Rega suddenly roared, pulling himself to his feet. ‘We cannot let them back into the outside world and put at risk everything we have worked for. Others will inevitably follow and I, above anyone else, know the consequences of that.’

‘The consequences are not always the same.’

Rega’s lip curled in disdain. He stepped off the dais, the movements of his old body fluid and self-assured within his chambers, and stopped only a few inches away from Dorje.

‘Look into my broken eyes and tell me that again,’ he hissed, throwing the cowl of his robe back so that his whole head was exposed. ‘I have suffered experiences you cannot possibly imagine. The last thing these eyes saw was our monks being butchered and the sacred treasure burning. And you dare suggest that the consequences will not be the same?’

Dorje found himself retreating a pace. Then he stiffened his back and replied in a measured voice.

‘I think perhaps your judgement on this matter is clouded. They are not Chinese, these men, but simple climbers. And you would do well to remember that, although they did not know it, they were actually the ones who ensured our treasure was delivered safely.’

‘They acted unwittingly!’ Flecks of spittle shot from Rega’s mouth as he spoke. ‘Imagine how differently they would have acted if they knew what she was delivering.’

Dorje shrugged his shoulders, his frown line deepening.

‘These are uncertain times, but I believe they must serve some purpose in being here. The will of Buddha brought them to our gates. We cannot judge them, nor condemn them, without first understanding why. I understand the suspicion you must feel, given all that you have been through . . .’ Dorje’s voice trailed off.

‘You understand?’ Rega sneered. ‘You understand what, exactly?’

There was a pause, the tension between them heightened by the absolute quiet in the chamber.

‘Do you know why they lined up the older monks?’ Rega asked softly.

Dorje was bemused. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘They lined them up because it was not practical to bring them back over the mountain pass. They would have slowed the soldiers down too much. Instead, a novice was chosen and a gun placed in his hands. Then . . . BANG!’ Rega clapped his hands together, the noise echoing loudly. ‘The Abbot was shot first. Then they did away with all our most venerable fathers, one by one, while the rest of our order stood by, watching by the light of our own burning monastery.’

Light from the window cut across Rega’s face. All the colour had drained from his cheeks.

‘But I never saw the others die,’ he continued. ‘By then I had lost my sight. I just heard the endless cracks of the rifles.’

Dorje looked down at the ground. A well of sickening emotion flooding through him – pity mixed with revulsion at such violence. He had always known that Rega had escaped from one of the earliest beyuls , but in all their time together, he had never once heard him speak of it.

‘You are right,’ Dorje said slowly. ‘I cannot imagine what you have been through. I apologise for my presumption.’

Rega brushed off the remark, his expression still harsh.

‘Unless you wish to stand by and watch history repeat itself, the foreigners must be forced to remain here. That is the only solution.’