Peter Dickinson - Tulku

For a moment Theodore thought he had walked into another temple. There, at the far end of the longish room, was the idol of the Buddha, twice life-size, gilded and jewelled, gazing at him out of the gloom with its blank eyes and uninterpretable smile; the room was heavy with glitter and richness and mystery, all made stronger and stranger by the light of the erratic little lamps. Two of the wheel-backed thrones stood in front of the idol; four benches, two on each side, faced each other across a central aisle – these were occupied by about thirty monks, mostly elderly. The Lama Amchi sat on the left-hand throne. The other was empty, waiting as it had waited these past twelve years, for the Tulku.

The Lama Amchi gave an order in Tibetan, and the monk who had let them in brought a stool and set it in the middle of the aisle between the benches. The oracle-priest eased Theodore gently on to it.

‘Welcome to the Council Room of Dong Pe,’ said the Lama Amchi. ‘Are you fit to answer questions?’

‘Where is Lung?’ said Theodore.

‘The Chinese? That need not concern us now. He is well guarded. He cannot harm you.’

‘What have you done to him? Is he all right?’

‘We have more important matters to consider. It seems to us that as the Festival began this morning the oracle spoke to you. We must know what he said.’

‘I won’t tell you anything till I’ve seen Lung.’

Most of the monks in the room must have understood Mandarin, for Theodore heard a murmur of anger from the benches. The Lama Amchi seemed unmoved. His eyes turned towards the oracle-priest, who spoke for a short while in Tibetan. Theodore caught the word for ‘room’.

‘Is this so, child?’ said the Lama, gentle as ever. ‘The oracle, speaking in your own tongue, told you to go to your room?’

‘When I’ve seen Lung,’ said Theodore.

There was a short silence. A monk rose on one of the benches and started to speak in tolerable Mandarin, no doubt for Theodore’s benefit. Theodore thought it was the old man who had held the slate at the ceremony of the oracle.

‘If this word is true,’ he said, ‘it could be interpreted simply. Only this child, who is the Guide, could recognize the signs to show that the Chinese had gone into the monastery, taking a weapon with him. Only he could know where to look for him and prevent the crime. But he would need to go to his room to recognize the signs. But this is mere speculation without the exact words.’

‘This is unimportant,’ said someone else. ‘The most necessary thing is to know what the Chinese in Pekin are planning for Dong Pe. They have sent this agent to attack our great Lama . . .’

‘That is not known for sure,’ said someone else.

‘Then let us ask the oracle.’

‘The oracle ceremony cannot be held for at least ten days. First there is the Festival, then the stars are ill-placed.’

‘Yet the oracle spoke only this morning. The child must be made to tell us . . .’

The acid note of the bell cut through the clamour of voices and silence fell. The Lama Amchi said nothing but sat gazing at Theodore with that strange half-seeing gaze, as though all the solid material of the room – flesh and bone, wood and stone – were so much mist, through which he was gazing on something more truly there. Theodore stared back. He was aware of a web of tensions around him, a network which quivered to the touch of a hundred different motives and impulses; he could hear in the whispered exchanges at one side something that was more than mere discussion, something which held a challenge to the Lama Amchi’s authority; he guessed the Sumpa had not been the only monk willing to help the Chinese, and that some secret sympathizers might even be present in this room. But for the moment none of those complexities mattered at all to Theodore. He had one clear and simple aim – to find out what had happened to Lung and to do his best to protect him.

‘You don’t even know that Lung fired the shots,’ Theodore said suddenly. ‘Perhaps it was me. I’m a Christian. Perhaps I wanted to stop the dance of Yidam Yamantaka, because I think it’s wicked.’

He could hear the disbelief in the murmurs around him. The Lama Amchi smiled.

‘You do not have such a thought in your soul,’ he said. ‘You are a friend. You are the Guide. Against your own inmost wish you have striven to help us, and now you have fought, as if with demons, to preserve my poor life. You have done well, and more than well, and our blessing is on you . . . No, it was the Chinese who fired the shots, though one indeed struck the shoulder of Yidam and one broke a lamp in front of the Buddha in my own room . . . Now I am at a loss. I do not see which way to turn if you will not help us.’

‘Let me see Lung.’

‘No.’

Before the silence could really settle again a new noise rose, a voice from beyond the doors, quiet but urgent, its owner, even through the muffling timber, unmistakable.

‘It is the Mother of the Tulku,’ said the Lama Amchi. ‘Do we admit her, my brothers?’

‘A woman? In the Council Room?’ said an appalled voice. Grunts of agreement followed the protest.

‘She is the Mother of the Tulku and no mere woman,’ said the Lama. ‘And besides, she will come in whether we like it or no.’

Without waiting for further argument he gave an order to the guard at the door, and at the same time rose to his feet. The door swung open and Mrs Jones came quietly through. Theodore realized that everyone else in the room was standing. He rose swayingly to his feet, turning to watch her come. She had the monks’ walk to perfection now, and glided just far enough into the room to let the doors shut behind her, then knelt and bowed her head to the floor. Rising again she came forward in silence until she stood beside Theodore.

‘What’s up, Theo?’ she whispered. ‘I heard a couple of shots this morning, and I knew they must of come from my gun, but no-one won’t tell me what happened. I been looking for you and old Lung all day, and in the end I got it out of someone as you was here. I was going to wait till you come out, but then I got it into my head as how you needed me, so I went and argy-bargied my way in.’

‘They won’t tell me what they’ve done with Lung,’ said Theodore.

‘Why should they of done anything with him?’

‘He tried to shoot the Lama Amchi this morning. I stopped him. On the roof of the temple of the oracle. I got knocked out in the fight. They’ve been trying to make me tell them what the oracle said to me this morning, and I’ve been saying I won’t tell them till they let me see Lung. I’m afraid . . .’

The clink of the bell cut him short.

‘Let us do everything in order,’ said the Lama. ‘Child, we must now talk in Tibetan, so that the Mother of the Tulku can answer us.’

Theodore nodded. At a sign from the Lama another stool was brought for Mrs Jones. Everybody sat. The Lama spoke for a short while. Theodore, from what Major Price-Evans had taught him, picked out enough of the words to guess that the Lama was asking Mrs Jones to persuade him to answer the question about his meeting with the oracle. He was preparing himself to refuse when instead of turning to him she replied to the Lama in Tibetan. She started easily enough, but then, to his surprise, stumbled and faltered, searched for a word, got going but almost at once came to a halt once more.

‘This won’t do,’ she said in English. ‘Trouble is, all the Tibetan I’ve learnt is about chants and meditation and such, which ain’t much cop for talking about this kind of thing. I’ll have to do it in English, and you put it into Chinee for them. All right?’

Theodore nodded, remembering his own difficulties with Major Price-Evans. Mrs Jones turned once more to the Lama Amchi.