general direction Zamyatin had taken, due north.
He found Chindamani about five hours later, on a low saddle of rock at the edge of a glacier. She had been there since the previous day When Christopher found her, she was seated outside a small tent chanting a mantra gently to herself, over and over again. He was reminded of his father reciting the Canticle of Simeon.
He sat down beside her quietly, not wanting to startle her. At first she continued chanting, immersed in the mantra to the exclusion of all distractions. Then she became aware of his presence and became silent.
“Go on,” he said, “I didn’t meant to disturb you.”
She turned and looked at him without speaking. He had only seen her before in the yellow light of butter lamps or in stark moonlight, silhouetted. In the watery light of day she seemed drawn and pallid, bereft of warmth.
“How long have you been here?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“A long time.” She paused.
“Have you come to take me home?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“I don’t know the way. There was a blizzard: all the tracks are blotted out. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t take you back there.”
She looked hard at him, with sad eyes.
“You’re tired, Ka-ris To-feh. Why are you so tired?”
“I haven’t eaten for three or four days. I’ve scarcely slept. What happened? How did Zamyatin find you?”
She told him. Someone had told the Russian about the stairs of Yama, and he had gone out to the pass by a side entrance. About half an hour after Christopher left to find his father, Zamyatin had found Chindamani and the boys. He had tied them together with a long rope and forced them to start walking.
“Where is he headed?”
“North. To Mongolia. He left me behind here because he said I was holding them up. He let me keep one of the tents and enough food for a week.”
“Are the boys all right?”
She nodded.
“They’re a little tired and frightened, but he has not harmed them.”
“What about.. .?”
She reached out a gloved hand and stroked his cheek.
“No more questions,” she said.
“I have food inside the tent. It’s time for you to eat.”
They moved on that afternoon through a light snowfall, two blurs of white in a white landscape, heading north. That night they pitched the tent in the lee of a tall rock face out of reach of the constant winds. For the first time since leaving Dorje-la, Christopher felt warmth creep back into his body.
The next day was like the one before, and the next. To make even a few miles in a day called for superhuman effort. Christopher could not begin to contemplate the sheer scale of a journey all the way to Mongolia. They were prisoners of the mountains: for all they knew, they were heading the wrong way. Though they eked it out, there was only enough food for a few days more. If they did not find a pass out of the mountains soon, they would be trapped in them forever. Christopher kept the gun a secret from her: if he had to use it, he would do so while she was asleep.
They slept together for the first time on the third night. Until then, she had kept separate from him, sleeping at her own end of their small tent, dreaming her own dreams, waking to her own loneliness. But that night she came, not simply to his bed, but to his world. It was not that she left her own existence entirely behind;
but from that moment it became paler than it had been, less substantial.
She came to him while he was sleeping, as though she were a part of a
dream, silent and unnoticed. He did not wake at first. A lonely wind
rattled through the gully in which they were camped, but inside the
little yak-hair tent it was warm. She lifted the heavy blanket that
covered him, her body on the hard ground, shivering,
fully awake, more awake than she had ever been. Carefully, like a child who has crept into bed beside her father for comfort, but is afraid to wake him, she lay against his back, awkward and tense.
He woke to her out of a dream of carnage. His sleep was still troubled and filled with dim shapes he could not remember when he woke. Hooded figures slipped away from him down narrow, deserted streets. Vultures descended on angels’ wings, their sharp beaks poised to tear his flesh.
He sensed her in the darkness close to him. As sleep left him and consciousness returned, he heard her breathing, felt her breath warm against his neck. He slept in all but his heavy outer clothes and boots. Through his thick garments, he could hardly feel her press against him.
For a long time he lay in the darkness like that, listening to the wind dance beyond the thin walls of the tent, listening to her breathe softly against the exposed skin of his neck. Then, wordlessly, as though still in a dream, he turned and lay face to face with her.
With one arm he pulled her to him until she was close against him. His fingers caressed her quietly, sadly, in a dream. She stiffened at his first clumsy embrace, then let herself be held by him.
Neither spoke. As she moved to him, she felt the dark and the loneliness grow around and within her. Her very nearness to him seemed to intensify whatever distance still rested in her mind.
He laid his voice on her like an anxious hand.
“Why did you come?” he asked.
“Does it matter?”
He stroked her back.
“Are you afraid?” he asked.
She said nothing, then put one hand behind his head and drew herself closer to him. Then, in a very quiet voice, she said ‘yes’.
“Of me?”
“Not of you,” she answered.
“Of wanting you. Of wanting to lie with you like this. To become flesh with you.”
“To become flesh?”
Not ‘one flesh’, she had said, but ‘flesh’.
“All my life I have been a vehicle for the spirit,” she said.
“I
pretended my body was a mirror, that the image was what counted,
not the glass.” She paused.
“I’m tired of pretending. I am what I am. Even if the glass breaks, I want to be more than the mirror.”
He kissed her gently on the forehead, then over her entire face, small kisses, delicate as flakes of falling snow. She trembled and pressed herself against him.
He caressed her back now with longer, softer strokes. She was wearing her indoor clothes from the monastery: a silk tunic and trousers. His hand touched the rising curve of her small buttocks and he felt desire begin in him.
“Desire is greedy. It will devour you,” his father had said. But what if one were already being devoured? By loneliness. By incapacity to love. By simple bereavement of the flesh.
With shaking hands, he undressed her. Her body felt young and supple and quiet as silk. Outside, the wind had fallen and snow fell in un resisted profusion, softening, whitening everything it touched. He bent over her and kissed her forehead again, then her eyes, in equal proportion. She shivered and moaned gently. His lips felt hot against her skin. She thought that, deep inside her, the goddess shivered too.
“I love you,” she said. It was the second time she had told him, but the words still seemed strange to her, a phrase from a liturgy she had heard spoken often but never until now seen enacted.
She felt desire for him grow, suffusing her as a light suffuses a hitherto-darkened room. His fingers moved across her flesh slowly and quietly, like the wings of pigeons stroking the bright air. His mouth found hers in the
