disturb him. Then, with a shock of recognition, he understood the words the old man was reciting:
Nunc dimittis servum tuum Domine .. .
“Now Thou dost dismiss Thy servant, O Lord, according to Thy word in peace. Because mine eyes have seen Thy salvation, Which Thou hast prepared before the face of all people ...”
It was the Canticle of Simeon, the old man who besought God to let him depart the world in peace, having set eyes on the Christ child. Christopher stood still, listening to the familiar words, wondering if anything more than a dream separated him from that fateful evening after mass.
At last the abbot came to an end. Christopher stepped forward and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Father,” he said. It was the first time he had used the name when speaking to the old man.
“It’s time for us to go.”
The abbot looked up, like someone who has long been expecting a summons.
“Christopher,” he said.
“I hoped you might come. Have you seen your son?”
Christopher nodded.
“Yes.”
“Is he all right? Is he safe?”
“Yes, father. He is safe.”
“And the other boy, Dorje Samdup Rinpoche is he safe too?”
“Yes. I’ve left them both down in the pass. Chindamani is with them.
They’re waiting for you.”
The old man smiled.
“I’m pleased they got away. You must leave as well, help them to get as far away as possible.
“Not without you, father. I came to fetch you.”
The abbot shook his head. The smile left his lips and was replaced by a deep seriousness.
“No,” he said.
“I have to remain here. I am the abbot. Whatever Tsarong Rinpoche thinks, I am still abbot of Dorje- la.”
“Tsarong Rinpoche is dead, father. You can remain abbot. But for now it’s better for you to leave. Just for a little while, until it’s safe for you to return.”
But his father shook his head again, more sadly this time.
“I’m sorry to hear about Tsarong Rinpoche. He was very unhappy. And now he will have to start his journey through his incarnations again. How tired that makes me feel. It’s time I laid this body with the others, Christopher. Time I was reborn.”
“You were reborn,” said Christopher quietly.
“When you told me who you were, it was like a rebirth for me. And again tonight.
Tsarong Rinpoche told me you were dead, and I believed him.
Coming in here like this, watching you at prayer it was like another rebirth.”
The old man put his hand on Christopher’s.
“Do you know what prayer I was reciting?” he asked.
“Yes. The Canticle of Simeon.”
“He knew when it was time to call an end. He had seen what he spent his life waiting to see. I feel the same way. Don’t force me to come with you. My place is here, among these tombs. You have another destiny. Don’t waste time here. The boys need your protection. Chindamani needs it. And, I think, your love. Don’t be too frightened of her: she’s not a goddess all the time.”
Leaning on Christopher’s arm, the old man eased himself slowly to his feet.
“Is the Russian still alive?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I think so.”
“Then it’s time you were on your way. I’ve no concern with politics.
Bolsheviks, Tories, Liberals they’re all the same to me.
But the boy must be protected. See that he comes to no harm. And your own son. I’m sorry I had him brought here, I’m sorry I caused you grief. But believe me that I thought it was for the best.”
Christopher squeezed his father’s hand.
“Are you sure you won’t come with me?” he said.
“Very sure.”
Christopher was silent.
“You are happy?” he asked after a while.
“I am at peace, Christopher. That is more important than happiness. You will see. In the end, you will see. Now, you must go-‘ Reluctantly, Christopher let go of his father’s hand.
“Goodbye,” he whispered.
“Goodbye, Christopher. Take care.”
Outside, a miserable sunlight was slowly working its way across the sky. One by one, stars faded and the jagged edges of mountain peaks were etched once more against a grey sky. In the air above, a vulture winged its way to Dorje-la Gompa. Its great wings dragged it forward, casting a grey shadow on the snow.
Christopher ran towards the spot where he had left Chindamani and the boys. The thin air scarred his lungs. His chest heaved, filling with pain. Altitude and tiredness were taking their combined toll.
There was a low ridge. He staggered up it and fell at the top, landing in a soft bed of snow. Picking himself up, he looked down into the pass. It was empty.
PART THREE
Parousia.
“And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards
Bethlehem to be born3’
The Road to Sining-Fu.
W B Yeats “The Second Coming’
Christopher’s greatest fear was that he would fall asleep in the snow and succumb to the cold. He had already been tired after his journey to Dorje-la, and the previous night’s exertions had taken their toll. The weather was bitterly cold, and his only protection was the clothing he wore. Several times when he rested he caught himself dozing off. He knew Zamyatin and the others would be tired too, but not as badly as himself. And they had two tents, a little firewood, and some food. His only hope lay in the tracks that told him which way they had gone. He would keep following them until his strength gave out.
On the first night, he found a small hollow in a cliff-face: not really of a size to be designated a cave, but big enough to give him a little shelter from the biting winds. He had not eaten since the early evening of the day before.
All the next day, he trudged on, moving deeper and deeper into the mountains. There was no point in turning back: whichever way he headed, he knew he would find nothing but snow and ice.
The tracks at his feet became the whole world to him, blotting out everything else.
He was troubled by dreams. In its exhaustion, his mind began to paint the blank snow with strange images. Once he saw a line of ruined pyramids stretch away from him towards a dark horizon.
And flanking them all the way a parallel line of sphinxes, robed in black silk and crowned with leaves of juniper. The need for sleep was overwhelming. All he wanted was to lie down and let the dreams take him. Every step became a struggle, every moment he remained awake a victory.
He kept awake on the second night by aiming the pistol at himself and holding his thumb on the trigger so that, if he pitched forward too far, it would fire. He sang to the darkness and carried out exercises in mental arithmetic.
On the third morning, he found another shelter in the rock, a deep one this time. He crawled inside it and collapsed at once into a deep sleep. It was daylight when he woke, still groggy, but he guessed he must have slept through all that day and night, so stiff were his limbs and so hungry did he feel on waking.
When he scrambled out of the little cave, he found himself in a changed world. There had been a blizzard. Try as he might, he could not find any trace of the tracks he had been following. He almost gave up then. It would have taken only a single bullet to make it quick. Instead, he decided to keep on, following the easiest path in the
