Patrick Woodhead - The Cloud Maker (2010)

‘Ribbit,’ he said, and his nose wrinkled into a smile.

Luca walked swiftly along the path, twisting as it zig-zagged up the other side of the valley. He drew the night air deep into his lungs, enjoying the burn in his thighs as he worked his way higher with each step. It felt good finally to be out of the monastery and climbing once again.

Thirty feet behind him on the trail he could see the glow of Bill’s head-torch and the faint silhouettes of Shara and Babu beyond. They were moving surprisingly well.

Less than an hour after they had set off, he came to the top of the same snow gulley they had climbed on their way to the monastery. He paused, staring down into the long drag of snow as it faded into the darkness. It was deeper now, with the top layer frozen from the cooler night air. Checking his bearings, Luca realised that the gulley was south-facing and would be most affected by any change in temperature. In the heat of the midday sun, the entire thing would be little more than heavy slush.

Shara joined him, standing by his side with the Kalak Tantra open in her hands. Using the light from his head-torch, she stared down at the densely packed script, her finger tracing one particular line. Luca craned his neck, intrigued by the book’s black pages and white angular text.

‘From here we bear west,’ she said, looking up into the night. Luca raised his hand, pointing towards the looming shadow of a steep cliff curving round in a semi-circle.

‘Looks steep,’ he said. ‘You sure about this?’

‘I think so. We traverse above the cliff for another five or six hours, then drop down the other side. From there, we should be able to see the base of the pyramid mountain.’

Luca nodded, then shook his head as Shara’s brow furrowed again while she tried to decipher the next paragraph of the book.

‘Doesn’t anyone round here know how to draw a map?’ he asked.

She looked up from the page.

‘Anyone can read a map. We prefer it this way.’

Closing the book, she placed it back in the canvas bag over her shoulder.

‘We should hurry. The Chinese could be closer than we think.’

Chapter 50

Trumpets sounded, silencing the restless hum of monks.

The entire order of Geltang sat shoulder to shoulder on the padded floor of the Great Temple. Their blue robes blended into a single, shifting form as they looked up expectantly to the central dais which bore the Abbot’s vast marble throne. The service was about to begin.

Towards the rear of the temple two novices held the giant wooden doors ajar, allowing the evening breeze to circulate, but it did little to cool the mass of heaving bodies. Hundreds of monks were seated, line after line, in perfect symmetry. Each held their prayer wheel in their right hand, some staring anxiously towards the stage while others rocked back and forth, already murmuring the evening sutra . Each knew that the entire order of Geltang only came together on the most portentous occasions. Something significant was about to happen and the atmosphere was charged with expectation.

A hush spread across the monks as all eyes turned towards a single figure striding in through the temple doors. His robes were light gold in colour, ornately stitched around the cuffs and interlaced with rich blue patterns woven subtly into the fabric.

The congregation rose to their feet as the figure mounted the dais and bowed before the great statue of the Buddha. Its face was masked by a large curving blue hat trimmed with fur. In its right hand, the figure held the long golden rod of the Dharmachakra – the ultimate symbol of authority in Geltang Monastery.

With its free hand, the figure reached down into the golden urn at the statue’s base, withdrawing a fistful of chalky tsampa flour and flinging it into the air. It hung briefly in the candlelight, then gently drifted to the ground as the figure turned towards the sea of upturned faces.

As one the monks leaned forward. Many had never even seen the Abbot in the flesh before. They had only heard the rumours and seen his likeness drawn in the prayer halls. The Abbot was as much a part of Geltang as its bricks and mortar, an unseen presence, cloistered away from all but the most enlightened amongst them. Now the living legend was finally showing himself.

The hat came off and Rega’s familiar face was revealed to the crowd. Despite the warming light of the candles, his skin was the colour of stone, his dead eyes fixed ahead to the middle distance.

A gasp of astonishment rippled through the crowd of seated monks. Rega drew himself to his full height, his old back unbending and his bony shoulders straightening. He raised the Wheel of Law above his head, its metal glinting.

‘ I hold the Dharmachakra,’ he shouted, his voice wavering from the effort. ‘ And with its vested powers, I now command the monastery. ’

Some of the monks recoiled as if they had been physically assailed by this news. Murmurs of surprise and alarm were clearly audible as the same questions were asked again and again. Where was the Abbot? How could their sacred leader be so summarily replaced?

‘ I speak for the Council, ’ Rega barked above the noise. ‘ The Abbot has stepped down from his duties. I am your leader now. ’

Confusion mounted amongst the monks. Most turned, bewildered, to ask questions of their neighbours. Some younger monks stood up in confusion, demanding answers.

Towards the front of the temple, seated by one of the high wooden columns near the dais, was Norbu. He stared in disbelief at the crowd. He had not understood what was happening until he saw Rega hold the Dharmachakra aloft, brandishing it in his hand like a prize. Suddenly, his eyes fogged with tears and he sank to his knees, his face buried in his hands.

He had betrayed the Abbot. He had unbolted the door when he had been told not to, tricked by Rega and his men. His only consolation was that the Westerners had changed their plans and arrived in time to rescue the boy.

Rega was pacing from side to side on the dais, displaying the Dharmachakra to all the monks gathered in the temple. Norbu stared up at him helplessly, eyes still shining with tears.

Rega raised his hands.

‘ Silence! ’ he shouted, the veins of his neck bulging. ‘ Silence, I say! ’

Gradually, the murmuring faded away as each monk obeyed and stared up at him.

‘I come before you as your Abbot bearing grave news. Chinese soldiers have discovered the route to Geltang. They approach even as I speak.’

There was stunned silence for a moment as the weight of this news slowly sank in. The impossible had happened; their greatest fears had become reality.

Slowly, a new clamour rang out as the monks began to panic. It reverberated against the closed acoustics of the temple roof, pierced by sudden shrieks of shock and fear. Rega tried to speak, but his voice was drowned out by the turmoil. After several attempts he signalled to three men standing alongside the dais. Raising their silver trumpets, they blew a high-pitched wavering note that finally cut through the noise.

In the brief moment of silence that followed, Rega shouted to make himself heard.

‘The Chinese are coming, my brothers! They seek to destroy our treasure. I know what will happen if they reach our gates. Fires will burn . . . everything will be lost.’

The noise began to swell once again.

‘But we can defeat them! All is not lost if we only have the courage to show our strength and resist. They are but a few soldiers and we are many. We can overcome them and protect ourselves. As your Abbot now, I order you to fight!’

When he shouted the last word, the crowd erupted. While many of the older monks stood aghast at this call to arms, stunned by the shattering implications of what Rega was saying, around the periphery of the temple novices surged towards the dais, shouting with excitement and determination.