him. Promise me that.”
“But.. .”
“You must promise. If they know you have seen him, they will make it impossible for us to get to him again. Promise.”
He nodded.
“I promise,” he said.
At the end of the passage, a door opened to the left. It led into a temple-room filled with statues and painted figures. From here, three more doors led into further rooms.
Chindamani motioned to Christopher that he should be silent, and opened the door on the right.
He saw at once that it was a bedroom. Only a dim light gave it any illumination, but he could see the small bed covered in rich brocades and the figure in it, etched by shadows.
Chindamani bowed low, then straightened and, putting a finger to her lips, slipped inside. Christopher followed her.
It was as though Dorje-la and all the vast wilderness of snow and ice that circled it had been swept away. Christopher imagined he was in Carfax again, looking down at his son sleeping in a quiet bedroom filled with toys and books. The only nightmare was in Christopher’s head. He, not the child, was the dreamer who could not awaken, however hard he tried.
Cautiously, he went up close to William. The boy’s hair had fallen over one eye. Gently, Christopher straightened it, touching his son’s forehead. The boy stirred and mumbled something in his sleep. Chindamani took his arm, afraid he might waken the child.
Christopher felt his eyes grow hot with tears. He wanted to pick William up and hold him, tell him that all was well, that he would take him away from this place. But Chindamani drew him away and out of the room.
It was a long time before Christopher could speak. Chindamani waited patiently, watching him. She was destined never to have children of her own, but she could understand some of the emotions he was feeling.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last.
“There’s no need,” she told him.
“When the moment comes, you may speak to him. But it’s best he doesn’t know you are here just yet.”
“You said you were going to show me something else. You said there was someone in danger from Zamyatm.”
“Yes. We are going to see him now.”
“Zamyatin came here in search of something. When I was with” Christopher hesitated ‘my father, he said he had done a deal with Zamyatin: my son in exchange for what Zamyatin wanted. Has this other person something to do with all this?”
Chindamani nodded.
“Yes,” she said.
“Zamyatin came here to find him. I want you to help me get him away from him.”
She led the way to one of the other doors. Another dimly lit chamber,
another bed covered in gorgeous fabrics. A child was sleeping in the
bed, hair tousled, eyes shut against the darkness,
one hand loosely curled on the pillow as though about to clutch or relinquish a dream.
“Here,” she whispered.
“This is what Zamyatin was looking for.
This is what brought you here.”
A boy? A child wrapped in shadows? Was this really all?
“Who is he?” Christopher asked.
“Who would you like him to be?” asked Chindamani in reply.
“A
king? The next Emperor of China, perhaps? The surviving son of the murdered Tzar? You see, I’m not entirely uninformed about your world.”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“He could be anyone. I didn’t expect something like this.” But what had he expected? Had he expected anything?
“He’s just a little boy,” said Chindamani quietly, but with feeling.
“That’s all he is. That’s all he wants to be.” She paused.
“But he has no say in the matter. He cannot be whatever he wants to be because other people want him to be someone else. Do you understand?”
“Who do they say he is?”
Chindamani looked at the sleeping child, then back at Christopher.
“The Maidari Buddha,” she said.
“The ninth Buddha of Urga.
And the last.”
“I don’t understand.”
She shook her head softly, sadly.
“No,” she said, ‘you do not understand.” She paused and glanced at the boy again.
“He is the rightful ruler of Mongolia,” she whispered.
“He is the key to a continent. Do you understand me now?”
Christopher looked down at the boy. So that was it. Zamyatin had been looking for a key to unlock the treasure house of Asia. A living god to make him the most powerful man in the East.
“Yes,” he said slowly.
“Yes, I think I am beginning to understand.”
She looked back at him.
“No,” she said.
“You understand nothing. Nothing whatever.”
They left the children sleeping and went out into the night again, returning to the main buildings by way of the bridge. The monastery was still fast asleep, but Chindamani insisted they move quietly until they reached Christopher’s room.
She stayed with him that night until just before dawn. He was withdrawn at first in spite of her presence, for seeing William had flattened his spirits greatly. She made tea on a small stove in the corner of Christopher’s room. It was Chinese tea, pale wu lung in which white jasmine flowers floated tranquilly, like lilies on a perfumed lake. When it was ready, she poured it carefully into two small porcelain cups set side by side on a low table. The cups were paper thin and soft blue in colour, like eggshells. Through the fine glaze, Christopher could see the tea, gleaming golden in the soft light.
“The Chinese call them to tai,” Chindamani said, touching the edge of one cup with her finger-tip.
“They are very special, very rare. These two were part of a present to one of the abbots of Dorje-la from the K’ang-hsi Emperor. They are over two hundred years old.”
She held the cup towards the light, watching the flames struggle in the amber liquid. For the first time, Christopher had an opportunity to see her properly. Her skin resembled the porcelain of the cup in her hand, in its smoothness and delicacy. She was tiny, less than five feet tall, and each part of her echoed that diminutive ness in a subtly modulated harmony of form. When she moved to pour tea or lift the fragile cup to her lips or just to brush a strand of stray hair from her eyes it was done with an infinitely exquisite grace that he had never seen in a woman before.
It was not a studied or a mannered gracefulness, but a natural ease of movement that had its origin in a total harmony that existed between her body and the world she inhabited. He felt that she might walk on water or cross a meadow without bruising a single blade of spring grass. And he felt sad, because such perfection seemed so far beyond his clumsy reach.
They drank the tea, saying nothing at first, watching the shadows melt and re-form on the walls. He was lost in thought, miles away, like a man drifting on a raft across an open sea, unable to tell where the shore might be or if there was a shore at all. She did not face him, did not try to break into his silence or tempt him from his pain. But when he looked up from time to time, she was there, her face half-hidden among shadows.
