A yellow robe is no guarantee against humanity. The words came unbidden into Christopher’s head. Hadn’t that been what Martin Cormac said, referring to this man’s brother?
“What have you discovered?” she asked.
“First, I have something to show you, with your permission,” the monk said.
He indicated something lying on the ground a few yards from his feet. It was a small leather bag stitched roughly with cord. He picked it up and handed it to Christopher without saying a word.
He felt it in his hand, slightly spherical, somewhat uneven, and quite heavy.
“Open it,” he said. Christopher did as asked, unfastening the clumsy knots tying the neck. The leather fell away, revealing the small head of a child, the face twisted and smeared with blood.
Mercifully, the eyes were closed, but Christopher almost dropped the gruesome object in shock.
Chindamani came to Christopher’s side and looked.
“Is it Samdup?” Christopher asked, uncertain whether or not he recognized the dead face.
Chindamani shook her head.
“No,” she whispered.
“It is not Samdup.”
She turned to Tsering.
“Where did you get this?”
“The Russian general Ungern Sternberg has filled a room with heads like this. All boys of Dorje Samdup Rinpoche’s age. He knows he is here. He is looking for him.”
Christopher replaced the head in the bag and retied the cords that held it. He wondered where to put it. For a moment, he felt more absurd than horrified.
“Can you help us find him before he does?” she asked.
“I think so. One of my friends at the mampa tat sang belongs to a revolutionary club started a few years ago by a man called Sukebator. This friend confides in me because I am a Tibetan and because he thinks I hold more liberal views than most. For several days now, he has been excited about something, although he won’t say exactly what it is.
“However, he did tell me something that seemed important.
“Ungern is collecting heads,” he said.
“He’s looking for a boy, a khubilgan, but he won’t find him. The boy is safe, but Ungern won’t know until it’s too late.” He told me where the heads had been thrown, and I managed to take the one I showed you. There was no guard, they had just been thrown into the room to rot. I brought it to you as proof that my friend’s story is true.”
“What is a khubilgan?” asked Christopher.
“It’s the Mongol term for a trulka,” Tsering said. His voice had a fresh quality to it, its rhythms less stilted than those Christopher had observed in other Tibetan monks.
“There’s no difference really.
But my friend said “khubilgan gegen”, meaning an enlightened incarnation, so I knew he was referring to someone of very high rank. Someone like the Maidari Buddha.”
“And did your friend tell you where this boy is being kept?”
Tsering shook his head.
“No. But I believe I know where this revolutionary club meets.
There is a large yurt just off one of the smaller alleyways in Ta Khure. I’ve seen my friend near there several times. If that is their centre, they may be holding the Lord Samdup there.”
Christopher pondered. It sounded as if Tsering was right and that the boy was here in Urga, waiting for Zamyatin to make his move.
“Did your friend say anything about another child, another incarnation?
A pee-ling incarnation?”
“I do not understand. Do you mean a trulku like the Dorje Lama?”
“Yes. He is the Dorje Lama’s grandson. He is my son.”
The lama shook his head again.
“No,” he said.
“He mentioned only a khubilgan. I think he meant a Tibetan. He said nothing about a. pee-ling trulku. I’m sorry.”
Chindamani took his hand and held it tightly.
“He will be there, Ka-ris, I’m sure of it. Please don’t worry.”
He pressed her hand in return.
“I know,” he said.
“But I’m becoming anxious now that we’re so close.”
He turned to Tsering.
“When can we take a look at what’s going on in this part?”
“It must be soon. We don’t have much time.”
“Why not?”
“The Lady Chindamani will explain.”
Christopher looked at her, puzzled.
Chindamani’s face grew serious. She bit her lip gently.
“It’s a prophecy, Ka-ris. The Maidari Buddha must appear on the Festival of Parinirvana.”
“Parinirvana?”
“The final entry of the Lord Buddha into nirvana, the state of heavenly bliss. The festival commemorates the day of his earthly death.”
“What does this prophecy say?”
She looked at Tsering, then back at Christopher.
“It says that the Buddha of the new age must appear on the day the last Buddha passed out of this world. They are one person.
The Buddha who entered nirvana must now return from bliss for the salvation of men. It says that he will return to earth in the Maidari Temple at Urga.”
“And if he fails to appear there on that day?”
She hesitated.
“He will have to die in order to be reborn yet again,” she said.
“If he is not proclaimed, he will return to the state of nirvana, where he will choose a new human vehicle for his next incarnation.”
“But if Samdup doesn’t appear this year, why can’t he do so next year?
Or the year after?”
She shook her head. A crow flew past her in a cloud of dust, its wings black and tattered.
“It must be this year,” she said. Her voice was low, almost a whisper.
“Do you remember,” she continued, ‘when you were in Dorje-la, your father told you of another prophecy?
“When Dorjela is ruled by a.pee-ling, the world shall be ruled from Dorje-la.”
He nodded. He remembered.
“Did your father tell you of another verse?”
Christopher thought.
“Yes,” he said.
“It referred to the son of a pee-ling’s son. He thought it referred to William.”
She smiled at him.
“I think he was right,” she said.
“The verse reads: “In the year that the son of a pee-ling’s son comes to the Land of Snows, in that year shall Maidari appear. He shall be the last abbot of Dorje-la, and the greatest.” Now do you understand? Now do you see why it must be this year?”
Christopher was silent. He stared at her, at a long bar of dust flecked sunlight that straddled her face, at a wisp of hair that fell, black as an omen, across her cheek. Behind her, the thin monk stood among the shadows, his
