long, there’ll be a British Ambassador in Lhasa. Don’t look so surprised I know a bit about what goes on round here. And the Ambassador will need a chaplain. That would be a start. He’s got it all worked out, believe me.”
“And you think Tsewong was part of this plan?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me.”
Christopher nodded. It sounded plausible. Plausible but harmless. And he was convinced that whatever was going on here was far from harmless.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said.
“But it sounds innocuous enough to me. Where do I come into this? And my son. He wasn’t kidnapped because of some ecclesiastical plot to open a mission in Lhasa.”
Cormac shrugged.
“I wouldn’t know. I’m not in that business me self Something tells me that would be more in your line. But you can be sure of one thing: if Carpenter’s laying the foundations for a Tibetan mission, it’s costing him plenty. There’s people to buy, influence to attract, men in high places to win over. That sort of thing doesn’t come cheap. And there are other prices too. Concessions.
Quid pro quos. Favours. As you know, Bibles and trade often go hand in hand. And not too far behind trade come the guns. Johnny Carpenter’s in deep, whatever he’s mixed up in.”
The penny I pay is not a copper one. Nor silver nor gold, for that matter.. .
“Where does he find the money? If you’re right, he must need a lot of money. I’ve been at the Homes there’s no wealth there.”
Cormac gave Christopher a look so intense it made him flinch.
It was like hatred.
“Isn’t there?” he snapped. Then, abruptly as he had spoken, he took hold of himself.
“I’ve had too much to drink,” he said.
“You’ll have to excuse me.
We’re on dangerous ground, mister. We’d better not go any further until I’m sober and you’ve had a rest. Perhaps we’d best go no further at all.” He took a deep breath before continuing.
“But maybe you’ve a right to know more. Come and see me in the morning. I’m not on duty until tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be in my bungalow they’ll tell you how to find it at the hospital. I’ve some things in my desk I’d like you to see.”
The doctor fell silent and glanced out through the window again.
Someone had lit a fire on the hills. He could just make it out, a tiny, lonely speck in the darkness.
“Jesus,” he said, his voice low, as though he were speaking to himself.
“Sometimes I wonder why we ever came here, why we stay. It’s no place for the likes of you and me: it swallows us up alive and spits us out again. Have you never felt that? As though you were being eaten. As though a tiger had your flesh between his teeth and was chewing you. A carnivore that had developed a taste for human meat.”
He shuddered at his own imagery. He had treated men attacked by tigers. What was left of them.
“What about the letter?” Christopher asked.
“The English letter that was found on Tsewong. Could Carpenter have written it?”
The doctor shook his head.
“He could have, but he didn’t. It wasn’t in his handwriting. It wasn’t in any handwriting I recognized. But I know one thing:
whoever wrote it had been brought up speaking English. Speaking it and writing it.”
“The letter said Tsewong was an emissary.”
“That’s right.”
“For someone called the Dorje Lama. I’ve never heard of such a person.
Have you?”
Cormac did not answer straight away. He watched the fire on the hillside. Someone was out there in the snow, feeding the flames, watching.
“Yes,” he answered, in a voice so quiet Christopher was not sure he had spoken.
“They don’t talk about him often. And never to foreigners. But one of my patients told me a little oh, it was years ago. He’s a sort of legend. There’s a monastery up there somewhere, a secret place. People are frightened of it. And the Dorje Lama is the abbot. There’s been a Dorje Lama for hundreds of years, so they say.”
The doctor turned and faced Christopher. The effects of the whiskey had vanished, to be replaced by a haunted look.
“And Tsewong was his emissary?” Christopher said.
“So the letter said.”
“Do you believe it?”
Cormac hesitated.
“I think,” he said, ‘you’d better see what I have to show you.
Come in the morning. We’ll talk about it then. I’ll tell you
everything I know.”
Christopher woke the next morning with the worst headache he had ever known. He took more of the tablets Cormac had left, but they did little good. Outside the rest-home, the girl had resumed her singing. She sang the same song, as though she knew no other;
but this morning her voice tore like a rusty blade through
Christopher’s head, and he cursed her as he dressed.
He shaved, cutting himself twice, and combed his hair, but he still felt untidy: there was a section of his head he could not bear to touch with the comb. Downstairs, he paused just long enough to drink a cup of black tea and eat some buttered chap atis The boy, Lhaten, looked at him oddly, but said nothing. The house was almost empty the caravaneers had gone off that morning early as planned, but Christopher had fallen into a disturbed sleep by then and had not heard them leave. The place seemed dull without them.
As Christopher was leaving, Lhaten approached him nervously.
“Are you all right, sahib? The doctor-sahib said you had an accident last night. He said you fell on the stairs.”
Christopher nodded.
“Yes,” he said, ‘that’s right. I fell on the stairs. I’ll be more careful tonight.”
A look of concern passed across Lhaten’s face.
“Yes, sahib. You must be careful. Call me when you come tonight. I’ll be awake.”
Christopher sensed that the boy either guessed or knew more than he said.
“Thank you, Lhaten, I’ll remember that.”
Lhaten flashed a smile and vanished towards the kitchen.
Christopher heard the shrill voice of the Lepcha woman.
Outside, the sun was shining and the air smelt fresh and clear.
Perhaps the world was clean after all, Christopher thought;
perhaps he carried the dirt around inside himself.
To his left, he heard the voice of the mysterious girl singing her bhajan. He turned and saw her, sitting on the ground with her back towards him. Long black hair fell gracefully down her back. Her head moved gently from side to side in time with her singing. He could just see that she was working with something on the ground in front of her.
An ekdm shamero at bangs hi bejechilo kanone.
One day that flute of the dark lord’s Played again in the forest.
Something pulled him towards her. He wanted to see her face, to watch her mouth as she sang, to watch her fingers move at her work. Softly, so as not to frighten her, he walked past her, then, several paces away, turned.
She did not see him looking at her. All her attention was focused on the object in front of her. She went on singing, like an angel whom nothing can distract from song. But her face was appalling in its ugliness, and misshapen legs stretched out in front of her like bent sticks. One eye was stitched tightly closed, and long scars
