Peter Dickinson - Tulku

‘Then you are, so to speak, a blank slate, waiting for the writer’s hand. What will he write there? Let it be my hand, and I shall write truths which will set you on the path to enlightenment, to the bliss which is beyond being. Or keep the slate blank and let the wheel turn on, to carry you through countless more existences until perhaps it reaches a point where such a chance comes again.’

‘Stone me,’ said Mrs Jones. ‘I’ve had some funny offers in my time . . .’

Her last two comments had been flippant, but the tone behind them had been at odds with the words. Theodore, used to her moods now, had sensed the change while the Lama had been speaking. At first she had listened to the talk about guru and chela with wary politeness, nodding at the end of each phrase to show she had understood; but when the Lama had begun to speak of her supposed past existences – an idea which Theodore thought too absurd to take seriously – her pose had stiffened and her eyes had flashed behind her veil, and each nod had been more decisive than the last, as if she not only understood the nonsense but accepted it. In the silence that followed her muttered comment Theodore heard once more the thin wheezing sound he had noticed earlier.

‘Tell him it’s a deal,’ said Mrs Jones suddenly. ‘Tell him I’ve always known, since I was a tiny kid, I wasn’t here only this time. I couldn’t of become me, bang, like that, out of nowhere. There’d got to be something before.’

‘It is a mighty spirit,’ said the Lama. ‘Blind and bound it has yet groped towards the way. Tomorrow we shall hold the ceremony of initiation in which I accept you as my chela and you accept me as your guru . Till then I must prepare myself with meditation.’

He rang a small bell. Mrs Jones rose, smoothing her skirt, and curtseyed. Theodore rose too and contrived a bow which was little more than a stiff nod, but the Lama had his eyes closed. A strange monk came in and stood by the door. Still with his eyes shut the Lama intoned a Tibetan blessing. They left.

The courtyard at the bottom of the stairs was still crowded, but an escort of half-a-dozen monks formed up and led them through. This time the people pressed closer and a strange cooing hum rose and fell. Mrs Jones strolled through the mass as though it was all perfectly normal.

‘Notice your pal the Major snuffling away behind that screen?’ she said.

‘Oh! Yes, I heard . . . I thought it was some sort of dog . . . Why . . .’

‘Check on what we was saying in English, of course. See if we was trying to string old Amchi on.’

‘Do we have to do what he wants?’ said Theodore. ‘Look, the Lama said you could tell him no and it would be all right.’

His misery must have sounded in his voice, because Mrs Jones stopped in her tracks and stared at him.

‘You poor mite,’ she whispered. ‘I never thought . . . You see, I wasn’t just having him on. I want to hear a bit more, ’cause nothing anyone’s said has ever made sense to me quite like that – and I never even bothered my head about you having to sit through it all . . . I know, tell you what – the Major, poor old beggar, no reason why he shouldn’t do it, if he’s to be there anyway. Better than sitting snuffling behind that screen. We’ll get him to do the interpreting and that will let you off. How about that?’

She spoke softly, almost pleadingly, as though she longed for him to be comforted. There was nothing Theodore could do but smile and nod, but in his heart he knew it wouldn’t work. This was something he was doomed to endure.

* * *

There was a visitor in the guest-house, a strange monk whom Lung was entertaining to formal Chinese tea. Theodore would have expected Mrs Jones to insist on a proper brew-up after the long morning, but she settled on to her knees and accepted a beaker of the straw-coloured water with a camellia petal floating on it. The monk, a square-faced, sturdy man called Sumpa, made conversation in good Mandarin, asked Mrs Jones about her plant-hunting and suggested areas of the valley that were worth exploring. He stayed a good twenty minutes but mentioned neither the Lama Amchi nor the morning’s ceremony with the oracle.

Next morning Major Price-Evans was waiting as usual on the steps between the prayer-wheels, smiling his welcome as Theodore walked across the courtyard.

‘Well, me boy, that was a marvellous thing to see, wasn’t it?’ he said. ‘All six powers coming into the oracle, one after the other, hey? I’ve only seen that happen once before – four or five’s a very good score in the normal way.’

He spoke with the enthusiasm of a sports fan who has witnessed some remarkable performance and wants to re-live the moment with a fellow-spectator.

‘Now, come in, come in,’ he went on, taking Theodore by the arm and almost thrusting him into his tiny cell. ‘Poor old oracle’s going to be a trifle sore this morning, I can tell you – sometimes takes him a week before he can get along without a stick after a show like that. All six powers, hey?’

The cell had changed. There were new hangings on two of the walls, and a stool for Theodore to sit on, covered with a brilliant little rug. A dish of orange cakes stood beside the tea-urn, and the drinking mugs were different, with ornate handles.

‘Like that mantra?’ said the Major, waving a hand towards the more garish of the new hangings, which showed an elaborate pattern constructed from a few Tibetan letters. ‘Wish I had my eyes to see it properly – stunning bit of work, hey?’

‘It’s very striking,’ said Theodore. ‘These aren’t the usual mugs.’

‘No, no, me boy. Somebody guessed you might be looking in and sent a few things along. Cakes, too. Nice of them, don’t you think?’

It was difficult to show enough enthusiasm for the changes, but Theodore did his best for the old man’s sake and not for any mysterious ‘them’. It was a comfort that the Major’s manner hadn’t altered – if the Buddha himself had materialized in the little room Theodore felt he would have been greeted with the same smile of delight, the same barking questions and cries of ‘hey?’ The cakes were sweet, pungent and slightly warm. Theodore nibbled one and tried to plan a tactful approach, but in the end he blurted his question out.

‘Major Price-Evans, couldn’t you do it?’

‘Do what, me boy?’

‘The interpreting. The Lama Amchi wants to explain about enlightenment to Mrs Jones, and because the oracle says I’m the guide, or something, I’ve got to sit there and turn it all into English for her, and . . . and . . .’

He wanted to say that he loathed not just what he was being asked to do but the whole pagan system of gods and Buddhas. He guessed that the Major would accept such an outburst perfectly calmly, in the way he accepted everything else, but Theodore couldn’t bring himself to say it.

‘Don’t fancy it, hey?’ said the Major kindly. ‘Can’t say I blame you. Not the sort of offer I’d have jumped at meself when I was your age. I would now, though. I would now.’

‘Well, why don’t you? You could do it much better than I can, because you understand what the Lama Amchi’s talking about.’

‘Me understand the Lama Amchi! My dear boy, you don’t know what you’re saying! When I first came here I had a notion he might take me on as a chela , but he said it was no go. Disappointment at the time, of course, but now I can see he was right. I’ll have to plug on through a lot more existences before I’m up to that level.’

Ruefully the Major shook his head.

‘But . . .’ began Theodore.

‘Don’t talk about it any more, there’s a good chap. Out of the question. You are the Guide, you know.’