Peter Dickinson - Tulku

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Along the eastern side of this courtyard ran an arcade, supporting a balcony rather grander than most but otherwise quite in keeping with the temple architecture. Opposite it, however, was a surprise, for here the mountain suddenly showed itself, natural rock rising towards the snows in a series of shelves and inclines. The rock had a naked look, like the skeleton of a dead beast that had been scoured clean by birds and insects. It became steeper as it rose, and where the true cliffs began it was pocked with caves, some of them mere openings and some extended into walls and roofs. Stairs, hewn into the rock, zigzagged up to these dwellings – if dwellings they were. Theodore saw three russet-robed monks moving among them, two carrying a large hamper-like basket from which the third took something when they reached each cave and passed it through a slot in the stonework or settled it on the floor of the opening.

Lower down the cliff, only a little above the roof-line of the monastery, was a wider shelf than most, and here was another oddity. Two houses occupied this site, side by side, each the mirror image of the other. A month ago Theodore might have thought they were perhaps shrines, or tombs, but he had slept in too many Tibetan villages to mistake them now. They were slightly plainer than Tibetan farms and more solidly built, and the upstairs windows with their heavy yellow shutters were much bigger than a farm would have afforded, but they were clearly houses. The steps between them and the courtyard were wider and more ornate than the ones that climbed on up to the caves.

Like a mouse creeping round the skirting of a room Theodore walked along below the rock wall and round the far side to the big doors. Peering into the dark he found it was, as he had suspected, a temple. The air here was full of incense and the heavy, greasy smell of the butter lamps. He didn’t cross the threshold, partly from fear of doing anything that might offend these pagan worshippers, and partly from a deeper-seated fear of being in any way involved with the powers they worshipped; but he stood for a while at the door, gazing at the enormous statue of the Buddha which dominated the twinkling dark. There must have been some cunningly arranged skylight to cause the gold mask, with its too-calm and too-sweet smile, to glow as if with inner light, making the dark around it seem thicker than ordinary dark, so that the flames of the hundreds of lamps were weak yellow spots and the clutter of idols and ritual objects were veiled as if by smoke, their true shapes undiscernible, but showing themselves here as the glimmer of a jewel and there as the flash of a staring white eyeball. The darkness and the richness and the closeness seemed to reach out into the mountain brightness infecting it in the same way that the smells of incense and burnt grease infected the clean thin air with their sick weight. Theodore would have turned away at once, but that would have been to acknowledge the power, to accept that it was something he was not prepared to face; so he stood there, staring bluntly at the Buddha.

As he turned at last, feeling that he had neither acknowledged the powers nor refuted them, his eye was caught by a movement. The arch through which he had entered the courtyard lay towards the mountain end of that side, and so far he had never really looked at the rest of it. Now he saw that it was mainly occupied by another temple, smaller and much more ornate than the one on whose steps he stood. There was a frivolous little dome and spike, also covered with gold; a pair of closed doors painted with red and orange and green demons; several banner-like streamers hanging from poles along the parapet; and two rows of large prayer-wheels on either side of the doors, the ones on the right still but the ones on the left twirling vigorously, though there was no monk near enough to have recently spun them. At roof-level, behind the banners on the left, a small windmill was turning, but on the right the sail of a similar mill pointed monotonously at the sky. It was something to look at, a change from Buddhas and idols, a mystery which reason might solve. Almost eagerly Theodore strode across the courtyard to inspect the mechanism.

It turned out to be as he had guessed. The windmill drove the prayer-wheels through a series of cords and pulleys. Each of the pulleys was itself a miniature prayer-wheel, but despite this there was something about the whole device which struck Theodore as oddly un-Tibetan. It was so ingeniously simple, and also efficient. With a very little adaptation it could have been made to do something useful. It was just the sort of thing Father might have invented, with its use of native techniques and western ideas to achieve something which neither could do alone.

The thought of Father shook him with an appalling, savage pang, as if the healing of the past weeks had been all suddenly ripped away, and the wound was yesterday’s. He stood dazed and sick, swaying to the steady tinkle of the prayer-wheels, thinking The Buddha did this to me. The Buddha did this to me . He shook his head violently, trying to drive the nonsense notion away, and for further distraction turned to climb the temple steps in order to cross and find out why the other set of wheels wasn’t turning. He was still dazed, and perhaps staggering slightly, for though he must have seen the monk come out of a small wicket in the main doors he still managed to bump into him. The monk appeared not to have noticed him till the collision.

‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ he muttered automatically.

‘Not at all, not at all,’ said the monk. ‘Ought to have been looking where I was going – not that I can very well these days.’

It took Theodore a moment or two to grasp that they had both spoken in English. The monk was peering at him with pale, opaque blue eyes. His head was quite bald, but a frizz of stiff white beard stood out all round a reddish-brown face. He was only an inch or two taller than Theodore, and looked as though nature had designed him to be plump, which he was not.

‘How d’ye do?’ he said. ‘Fine morning.’

He was smiling with great sweetness, almost eagerness, which contrasted with the snappy bark of his voice.

‘Yes, it’s lovely,’ said Theodore. ‘Uh, my name’s Theodore Tewker. I came here yesterday.’

‘Good. Good. Excellent. My name’s Achugla. Used to be Price-Evans.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Price-Evans.’

‘Major Price-Evans. Not that it matters. You’re American, by the sound of you. Care for a cup of tea? Come in. Come in.’

Without waiting to hear whether his invitation was accepted, the old man turned and led the way through the wicket. Theodore followed him into the near-dark, into the reek and richness, where the face of another Buddha gleamed half way to the roof. Left to himself Theodore would have backed out, but the monk who called himself Major Price-Evans was shuffling away to open a door into a small bright cell. Following him Theodore found that this was lit by a skylight. There was just room in it for a cot and shrine and a stove. The walls were covered with gaudy hangings, some of them showing pictures of the Buddha, others that might have been demons or might have been gods, and yet others which were merely patterns of huge letters.

‘Sit down, sit down,’ said the Major, waving a hand at the cot. ‘Come here to study under the Lama Amchi, have you? Sound a bit young for it – none of my business, of course.’

‘We came here by accident. The Lama Amchi helped us to escape from some brigands, and brought us here.’

‘If Lama Amchi’s in it, it’s not an accident.’

‘Anyway, I’m a Christian.’

‘Are you now? Good. Good. Excellent.’

The Major beamed at him as though this was the most interesting news he had heard in years, then turned to the stove and before Theodore could think of a polite way to stop him had ladled out two mugs of tea from the pot that stood murmuring there. The smell told Theodore what it was.

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