Bolshevik troops, and a People’s Republic had been proclaimed. A sense of normality was beginning to return to the country.
The lama was on his way to a monastery north of the mountains, a place called Amur-bayasqulangtu, situated on Mount Buriinkhan, of which both Christopher and Chindamani had heard. It was the site of the tomb of Ondiir Gegen, the first of the Jebtsundamba Khukukhtus.
They persuaded the lama to stay with them for a day or two. He explained to them that the temple in which they now lived was known as Maidariin sume and that it had been dedicated to the Maidari Buddha. When it was time for their visitor to leave, he asked if they would accompany him to Amur-bayasqulangtu, and they agreed. The nights were growing cold and before long food would become scarce. But they had another reason for leaving.
Chindamani was one month pregnant.
Amur-bayasqulangtu was a vast establishment that amounted to a small town, with some two thousand lamas in permanent residence. The abbot, known as the Khambo Lama, was happy to receive them and provided them with quarters where they could spend the winter. During the coming months, Christopher and Chindamani lived together as man and wife. Once, a deputation from the new government paid a visit to the monastery to assess it for taxes; but the lamas hid their guests until the officials had gone.
Once winter set in hard, they were not troubled by further visits.
But Christopher knew the monks would not be left in peace for ever.
There would be fields to dig and roads to build and armies to train.
There would be a price to pay for independence.
Years later, Christopher thought he was never so happy as during that
winter and spring. All his time was spent with
Chindamani or doing things for her. And he believed she too was happy.
“If I left you, Ka-ris To-feh, could you bear it?” she once asked him
while they lay in bed together listening to the wind flapping against
the walls of their yurt
“No,” he said, and held her hand beneath the rough blanket.
The wind blew and snow fell and ice lay packed against their door. It was a bad winter, during which many of the monastery’s livestock died. But in the end spring came and the ice melted and turned to water. At the beginning of May, Chindamani’s baby was born. It was a boy. They called him William Samdup.
Christopher woke one morning a week later to find both Chindamani and the baby gone. He looked everywhere, but could not find them. Then, on the table where they had eaten supper the night before, he found a note in Tibetan. It was not easy for him to ready-but he persevered, and in the end he understood it.
Ka-ris To-feh, it read, I am sorry that I could not leave you in any other way. Forgive me if this causes you pain, but it is hurting me too, more than I can bear. If I could choose, I would stay with you forever.
Even if it meant endless lifetimes, I would willingly stay with you. I love you. I have always loved you. I shall continue to love you until I die.
But I cannot stay with you. You already know that, I am sure. Our child cannot stay here, he will always be in danger. We cannot go to your country, for you have told me there are no gompas there. I think you know who the child is, who he is destined to be. I will tell him about you. Every night when the sun goes down and the monks leave us alone, I shall talk to him about you. I will never forget you. Please remember me.
He remembered the last evening at Gharoling, when she had gone out to the terrace to gaze at the darkness. Don’t think I can be yours forever, she had said. You must not think that. But he had thought it and he had wanted it.
He left the monastery two days later. He knew where she had gone, of course. In his mind, he could see the little lake on the borders of Tibet and the rocky island in the centre, with the tiny temple. And he heard her voice, speaking into the wind: I have been here before. And I shall come here again. More than anything, he wanted to go there, to see her just once more. But of all the places in the world, he knew it was the one place he could not go.
He headed for Urga. For the first time that year, there were no clouds in the sky. England was a long way away.
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Thanks to everyone who helped with this book, especially my agent, Jeffrey Simmons, John Boothe and Patricia Parkin at Grafton, Patrick Filley and Jennifer Brehl at Doubleday; Frs. John Breene and Tony Battle for their patience; Dr. Dermot Killingley for his rendering of the Bengali song on pages 44 and 96; and Beth, for everything.
Daniel Easterman was born in Ireland in 1949. He studied English, Persian and Arabic at the universities of Dublin, Edinburgh and Cambridge, and is a specialist in several aspects of Iranian Islam. He has lived in Iran and Morocco, but in 1981 returned with his wife to England to teach Arabic and Iranian studies at Newcastle University. In 1986, he gave up teaching to concentrate on writing full-time.
When not researching or writing, he devotes much of his time to the study and promotion of alternative medicine. He is currently working on a new novel.
