loud report, and Christopher realized with horror that the stranger had just shot the boy. The man straightened up and put his revolver back into his pocket.
For what seemed an age, Christopher stood rooted to the spot.
The gunshot echoed in his head, as if the bullet were crashing again and again into Lhaten’s skull. He looked down and saw a trickle of bright red blood stream from the boy’s temple on to the white, innocent snow.
He cried out in pain and rage, and threw himself at the boy’s killer, but the monks had already seized him by the arms and held him at a distance.
“Why?” shouted Christopher.
“Why did you kill him?”
“He would have died anyway,” the stranger said in an unruffled voice.
“We are still too far here from help. It was better like this.
Better for him. Better for us all.”
“We could have saved him! There’s a village a few miles from here.”
“We aren’t going to the village. He would have delayed us.
Delayed us badly. The weather may deteriorate again. A cripple would have been a threat to all of us.”
Christopher struggled, but it was useless. He wanted to hit the man, to tear his scarf away, to see his face. But the monks held him firmly.
The man cast a glance at the limp body on the ground behind him.
“You were warned, Mr. Wylam. You were warned not to enter Tibet.
There has already been a tragedy as a result of your disobedience.
There must be no more.”
He paused. A gust of wind lifted the corner of his scarf and dropped it again. His eyes looked keenly at Christopher again, as though searching for something.
“Who are you?” Christopher asked. But he already knew.
The stranger lifted his hand and pulled down the scarf from his face.
Christopher recognized the heavily pitted skin.
“I didn’t think you would make it this far, Mr. Wylam,” said the monk.
“But now that you have done, perhaps you had best accompany us the rest of the way.”
“The rest of the way? Where are you planning to take me?”
“You wanted to find your son,” the monk said.
“I can take you to him.” He glanced up at the sky, at banks of grey cloud.
“It’s time we left. We have a long journey ahead of us.”
By the second day, they were deep into the mountains. At the bottom of
the descent from the passes, near the point where the track entered the
Kampa plain, preparatory to turning toward Kampa Dzong, they had veered
west, skirting the mountains along their northern edge, then
re-entering along a valley whose opening it was impossible to detect
with the naked eye.
Christopher could never work out how they traced their path, but the monks appeared to know the way unerringly. They climbed high, sometimes taking what seemed like impossible passages past steep drops or by the edges of dark crevasses. They made their way in silence through the heart of a white, sleeping world, their tiny figures dwarfed by walls of rock and frozen snow. Sometimes fresh snow fell, not violently as before, but in soft showers that covered them quietly in mantles of white. They passed ice-falls that resembled vast abandoned cities encased in glass. In the mornings, out of banks of white mist, pinnacles of rock jutted into view, carved over centuries by remorseless layers of frost. In the evenings, the rays of the setting sun would fall on decaying towers of ice and frozen curtains woven from long, thin icicles.
They walked for days, stopping only briefly to eat and rest.
Christopher, exhausted by his exertions over the past week, felt driven almost beyond endurance. He moved in a dream, urged on by the monks, who shoved and pulled him over the hardest parts.
Sometimes, there was real climbing to be done, and he was afraid he would slip and fall to his death. But luck and dogged perseverance kept him going.
He persevered because he wanted to kill the lama, but no opportunity presented itself. At night, they tied his arms and legs tightly with rope and made him sleep at a distance, trussed up and aching in the bitter cold. He lay awake for hours, thinking of Lhaten and the callousness of his death, of Cormac bloody beneath the buzzing of flies.
The lama’s name was Tsarong Rinpoche. He spoke little to Christopher after the first day. He had brief conversations with the two monks from time to time, but otherwise he journeyed in silence.
The monks were even more silent. When they rested, they prayed. When the going was easy, they brought small silver manikhors out of their robes and spun them, filling the air with a whirring sound. The prayer-wheels were finely decorated drums set on polished wooden handles, about whose axis they turned, driven round by the action of a counterweight attached to a small chain. Inside, block-printed sheets bore the formula of the mani prayer repeated thousands of times. At each revolution, the prayers were ‘recited’ by the mere act of turning. In a single day, the monks sent up millions of invocations. And while they did so, their lips muttered other prayers, muffled behind their scarves.
Christopher could not reconcile their apparent piety with their indifference to Lhatep’s murder or their harshness with him on the journey. Or was it simply a kind of piety he could not hope to understand?
Sometimes they woke in the middle of the night and filled the brutal silences of Christopher’s insomnia with the reading of sutras that seemed to have no meaning. Out of a sky washed clean of cloud, bands of frozen moonlight glided across their still figures.
On several occasions, Christopher saw the lama rise in the middle of the night and walk in and out of the shadows, like someone who cannot bear immobility. He slept little, yet in the mornings never seemed tired or irritated.
Once, he came across to where Christopher was lying, bound in the darkness.
“I’m sorry you have to be tied,” he said.
“But I have no choice. I know you want to kill me. You must take revenge for the boy and the doctor. Since you do not understand and will not easily be made to understand, you must be prevented. I am sorry.”
“Would it have meant much delay to have saved the boy’s life?
A day, two days perhaps.”
“We were in a hurry. We still are in a hurry.”
“If I fall behind, will you kill me as well?”
“You will not be allowed to fall behind.”
His voice made strange verbal patterns in the darkness. Words like ‘choice’, ‘understand’, ‘prevented’, and ‘allowed’ were the links in a subtle chain that was fastening hard round Christopher.
“But if I fall and injure myself, what then?”
“They will carry you. You will not be permitted to come to any harm.
They have been given their instructions.”
Christopher remembered his words in Kalimpong: You are holy:
do not make me touch you.
“What about you?” he asked.
“I am here to see they carry them out.”
“When shall I see William?”
The monk shook his head.
“That is not for me to decide,” he said.
“At least tell me if he’s safe!”
“Yes, he is safe. Or he was safe when I last saw him. If Lord Chenrezi wills, he is still safe.”
“Where is he?” Christopher asked abruptly.
“Where are you taking me? Are we going to Dorje-la?”
The lama reached out a naked hand and touched Christopher’s cheek.
“You are like a child,” he said.
