The Cloud Maker

There were more shouts then others appeared, leaving their tents and following in their comrades’ tracks up the steep slope.

Why hadn’t they taken a shot at him? Why weren’t they firing?

Luca’s head turned slowly towards the ground as the answer came to him. The soldiers were scared of triggering an avalanche. The entire gulley was filled with heavy powder, melted into unstable layers by the heat of the midday sun.

An avalanche.

Tearing open his rucksack, Luca pulled out his MSR stove and the reinforced metal fuel bottle. He’d done it as a schoolboy once before, but would this single bottle really have the power to collapse the cornice? He looked at it, the metal cold in his hands, praying it would be enough.

Reaching back into his rucksack, he pulled out his old Nalgene water bottle, unscrewing the top and flinging the water on to the snow. Decanting the contents of the fuel bottle into it, he raised it to the light, watching the Coleman’s white fuel slosh from side to side. Then, with a sharp jab of his pocket-knife, he stabbed a tiny hole through the plastic lid and carefully placed the bottle upright in the snow beside him.

Luca turned, looking down into the gulley. The soldiers were already a third of the way up and moving fast. He could hear their shouts filtering up the mountainside.

Wrenching open his jacket, he tore a long strip from the bottom of his T-shirt, cutting the last of the cotton free with his knife. He poured a little more fuel over the cotton, using the blade of the knife to poke it through the hole in the lid of the water bottle. With a sharp twist of his hands, he sealed tight the lid.

He’d been sixteen when, with a few friends, he’d first managed to make a Molotov cocktail from an old whisky bottle and some fuel siphoned from his dad’s lawnmower. On the third attempt it had blown the park swings from their foundations, charring the entire metal frame. Pressure… that was the secret to making a Molotov cocktail actually explode. He needed to seal the water bottle tight.

Luca stared down at his own shaking hands, the spilled fuel shimmering on his skin. He twisted the lid as tight as he could, then, on his hands and knees, began digging in the snow, stabbing at it with the blade of his pocket-knife. He kept digging, scraping the loose snow away with his bare hands and flinging it in a pile behind him. Soon he was up to his elbow, then his shoulder.

Still he kept digging at the narrow hole. The knuckles of his hands started bleeding, rubbed raw from the snow, and he could feel his chest heaving up and down. Eventually he stopped, sitting back on his knees. He grabbed the water bottle, sloshing the very last dregs of fuel over the wick, and pulled his lighter from his pocket.

The flint caught, sending sparks across his hand, but there was no flame. Desperately he pressed his thumb down, spinning the wheel again and again. At last a tiny blue flame flickered up, no bigger than the nail of his thumb. Luca quickly ran it under the fabric until the fire spread slowly, moving with an almost invisible flame. Then, sliding the bottle down into the hole, he packed handfuls of snow over the opening and stepped back quickly.

Seconds passed. Nothing happened. Luca stood with his hands clutched in front of his chest, willing the fuel to catch. He heard more shouts and moved to one side, staring down into the gulley.

The first of the line of soldiers was nearing the summit. Luca could see his face clearly now, his cheeks flushed with colour from the effort of wading up through the deep snow. His jacket was unbuttoned, flapping out behind him, and his bare hands were clamped round the grip of his rifle, the finger already resting against the trigger.

The soldier looked up, straight into Luca’s eyes. The muzzle of his rifle instinctively swivelled towards him, but then the soldier’s eyes flicked towards the huge overhanging snow cornice just to his left. He lowered the rifle, but surged forward with renewed energy. He was almost at the top.

‘Shit!’ Luca screamed, looking down at the pile of snow. It hadn’t worked.

For a moment he glanced towards Geltang, every instinct telling him to follow Shara and run for it. Then, diving forward, he clawed back the snow and reached inside. He pulled the water bottle to the surface, staring down at the improvised wick.

The flame had gone out.

Brushing the snow off, he lit the wick again and slammed the bottle back into the snow, throwing only a single handful over the opening before flinging himself backwards. Just beyond the edge of the snow cornice, he heard a shout. He turned to see the top half of the soldier standing a pace below the ridge. His rifle was raised, pointing at Luca.

It was over.

Chapter 55

‘Look at him,’ Rega shouted out across the sea of expectant faces. ‘The seventh Abbot of Geltang and High Lama of the blue order. Yet he is nothing more than a tired old man!’

Light pierced the Great Temple from tall windows set either side of the gilded doors. The night’s torches were still lit but slowly dying as the full light of morning streamed into the crowded chamber.

‘Do not be deceived,’ Rega continued, his voice straining, ‘he is no great leader. He just rots in his chambers, allowing our sacred monastery to go to ruin as he follows his own selfish path. Even now the Chinese approach, yet he does nothing!’

The Abbot was standing in front of the dais wrapped in the coarse, brown clothing of the Perfect Life. The tunic had been ripped open below his chest so that his narrow shoulders were bare, the skin waxen and pale from so many days spent closeted from the daylight. His head was lowered, eyes shut, while Rega ranted just above him.

For nearly an hour the public denunciation had continued, with Rega stirring the crowd into a frenzy. When the Abbot had first been paraded before them, silence had descended across the Great Temple. Each monk had stared in mute amazement at the filthy old man before them, his clothes in rags and his head bent low. Could this really be their sacred leader?

But as Rega’s accusations continued, the untouchable aura that once seemed to surround the Abbot had been challenged by the mocking contempt from the novices on the edge of the dais. Their shouts of derision filled the temple as they hung on Rega’s every word, baying for action.

Standing against a side wall, Dorje burned with frustration. He stared out impotently across the sea of sneering faces and the whole incredible scene before him. Why didn’t the Abbot say something? Why didn’t he deny these ridiculous charges and win back his monastery?

Dorje watched the mass of monks surge forward again. There were over five hundred of them crammed into the temple, shouting and jostling for a better view, while their elders stood, like Dorje, on the periphery. They remained in silence, unable to make themselves heard above the noise and chaos.

Then Dorje understood. It was the same for the Abbot. Even if he tried to protest, no one would have heard him.

A soft breeze blew through the temple. Dorje looked up as the flames of the candles flickered. The gilded doors were being forced back on their hinges, and beyond them two figures had stepped into the light. He saw Shara’s long black hair and the boy clutched in her arms.

Dorje moved towards the back of the dais. He jostled against the other monks, fighting his way through, until he could see the trumpeters standing in a line.

‘Sound the arrival!’ he ordered above the din. The first of the trumpeters stared at him in confusion.

‘Do as I say!’ Dorje yelled. A moment later, the silver trumpet blasted out a long, shimmering note. The noise of the crowd lessened, as Rega spun round to see what was happening.

‘Who ordered you to play?’ he thundered, but Dorje had already reached the back of the dais and clambered up on top. He rushed forward across the stage, looking out at the crowd.

‘Silence!’ he shouted, pointing towards the door. ‘Silence for the Panchen Lama — the rightful leader of Tibet.’