He shook his head.
“It’s simple,” she said.
“We are all aspects of the eternal Buddha.
My aspect is Tara. She can be seen in me and through me. But I am not Tara. I am Chindamani. I am just a vehicle for Tara, here in Dorje-la. She has other bodies in other places.”
Christopher shook his head again.
“None of this makes sense to me. I could believe you are a goddess, that’s not hard. You’re lovelier than any statue I’ve ever seen.”
She blushed and looked away.
“I am only a woman,” she murmured.
“I have known nothing but this life, this body. Only Tara knows my other bodies. When I am reborn, Tara will have yet another body. But Chindamani will be no more.”
Outside a gust of wind clattered briefly and was still.
“I’m sorry this is hard for you,” she said.
“I’m sorry too.”
She looked at him again and smiled.
“You should not be so sad.”
But he was sad. Nothing would turn him from that now.
“Tell me,” he said, ‘what does the name Chindamani mean? You said Tara had many names. Is that one of them?”
She shook her head.
“No, it’s a Sanskrit word. It means “the wish-fulfilling jewel”.
The jewel is part of an old legend: whoever found it could ask for all his wishes to be fulfilled. Do you have stories like that where you come from?”
“Yes,” said Christopher. But to himself he thought that they all ended in tragedy.
“You have not told me your name,” she said.
“Christopher,” he replied.
“My name is Christopher.”
“Ka-ris To-feh. What does it mean?”
“It’s difficult to explain,” he said.
“One of the names of the god my people worship is “Christ”. “Christopher” was the name of a man who carried him on his shoulders when he was a child. It means “the one who carried Christ”.”
He though she looked at him oddly, as though his words had struck a chord in her. She was silent for a while, lost in thought.
He studied her face, wishing it were daylight so he might see her better.
“Chindamani,” he said, changing the subject, “I know who the Dorje Lama is. I know why he brought my son here, why he wants to keep him here. You said you could help me take William away.
Are you still willing to do that?”
She nodded.
“Why?” he asked.
“Why do you want to help?”
She frowned.
“I need your help in return,” she said.
“I can find a way out of Dorje-la for you and your son. But once we are outside I am helpless. I was brought to this place as a little girl: the world is just like a dream to me. I need you to help me find my way in it.”
“But why should you want to leave at all? Help me to get William out and I will take him the rest of the way.”
She shook her head.
“I told you there was danger here,” she said.
“I have to leave.”
“You mean you’re in danger?”
She shook her head again.
“No. No-one would dare harm me. But others are in danger.
One in particular: his life is in great danger. I have to help him escape. I want you to help me.”
“I don’t understand. Who is this person? Why is his life in danger?”
She hesitated.
“It isn’t easy to explain.”
“Try.”
She shook her head.
“No,” she said.
“It will be better if you see for yourself. Come with me. But be quiet. If we are discovered, I won’t be able to help you. He will have you killed.”
“Who? Who will have me killed?”
“A Mongol. They say he comes from a distant place called Russia. His name is Zamyatin.”
Christopher nodded.
“Yes,” he said.
“I know about him. Is he the source of the danger here?”
“Yes. Zamyatin and those who support him. He has followers in the monastery. The man who brought you here, Tsarong Rinpoche, is one of them.”
It was still unclear, but Christopher could see the beginnings of a pattern.
“Where are we going?” he said.
She looked at him directly for the first time.
“To see your son,” she said.
“I promised I would take you to him.”
They left Christopher’s room through a hidden door in the wall, behind a heavy hanging. There was a long, musty passage that led them to a second door, through which they entered a public corridor. Chindamani knew her way impeccably. He watched her glide ahead of him, a mere shadow blending with other shadows.
They remained on the upper storey, passing along curiously shaped corridors and through dark, freezing rooms. Finally, they came to a spindly wooden ladder that led up to a hatch set in the roof of the passage. On hooks near the ladder several heavy sheepskin coats were hanging.
“Put one of these on,” ordered Chindamani, passing a chuba to Christopher.
“We’re going outside?”
She nodded.
“Yes. Outside. You’ll see.”
She slipped into a chuba that was several sizes too big for her, drew its hood over her head, and without another word turned and scrambled dexterously up the ladder. At the top, she used one hand to raise the hatch. It was like opening a door into a maelstrom. A freezing wind came down like a breath from a northern hell. Chindamani’s lamp was snuffed out instantly, leaving them in total darkness. Christopher climbed up after her.
“Stay close to me!” she shouted.
The wind drove into her face with a brutal force that almost toppled her from the ladder. She crawled out on to the flat roof, bending low in order to avoid being caught by the wind and tossed aside. The darkness was not darkness, but a mass of indecipherable sounds: the howls and whimpers of lost souls in a wilderness of pain.
Christopher clambered out beside her and replaced the hatch with difficulty. He reached out and found her in the darkness. She took his hand, gripping it tightly with cold and frightened fingers.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, Christopher could make out vague shapes around them: the golden cupolas and finials, prayer-wheels and gilded statues that he had seen from a distance on the day of his arrival at Dorje-la. Chindamani knew her way across the roof from long experience. Together, they moved through the gale until they came to the very edge. Chindamani pulled Christopher close and put her lips to his ear.
“This is the hard part,” she said.
