Tulku (9 page)

As he watched the pair riding ahead, he wondered how Father would have reacted in his place. Of course Mrs Jones wouldn’t have behaved the same way with Father there – or would she? Father would certainly have reproved her, bluntly
but
without arrogance. He would have disliked her treatment of Lung quite as much as her general impropriety and would have said so. Ought Theodore to have done the same? No – he wasn’t Father. Father was . . .

It was strange to be thinking of Father like this, as it were from the outside. Father had been a wonderful man, good and clever and kind, but his personality had been so strong that it filled the Settlement. You breathed and ate and drank Father. Sometimes he was a cliff towering above you; at other times you swam in the lake of his love. But all the time you were somehow inside him, as the unhatched bird is in its shell; and now Theodore was outside, looking back down the vista of travelled days to where Father was dwindling, just as the limestone pillars of the plateau had dwindled with the miles.

Theodore was only very vaguely aware that this sense of dwindling and distancing was a symptom of the wound in his life beginning to heal; in fact his main reaction was one of guilt at the sense of ease and freedom he had been feeling for the last few days, and for a while he actually tried to open the wound up, to bring Father nearer by working himself back into a state of shock and agony at the destruction of the Settlement and his own casting-out. But at the same time he knew in his heart that this wouldn’t do. It was a lie, and Father had always taught him that unless you were truthful with yourself you couldn’t be truthful with anyone else.

He was distracted from this train of thought by an absurd piece of behaviour by the pair ahead. For a moment he thought that Lung had been stung by some insect, from the way he was
wriggling
about; but then it became clear that the Chinese was attempting to kneel on Rollo’s haunches, and having achieved that, to rise to his feet. He actually made it, and stood for two or three seconds, arms outstretched like a circus performer, while Mrs Jones applauded. Then he lost his balance and half-slid, half-jumped to the ground. Theodore would have thought that the pair of them were drunk if he hadn’t heard Mrs Jones complaining the night before that Lung had forgotten to buy any wine in the village in the hollow. He smiled at their childish antics, and decided that it was not his business to judge them.

This decision, though sensible, turned out harder to stick to than he would have guessed. The nights on the plateau were very sharp. If the air was still they would wake in the morning to find the miles of grass all white with frozen dew; and any wind that swept down from the mountains was like the breath of an ice-giant that can turn all living things to stone. They would halt near dusk, pitch the two little tents, feed and water the horses, then cook a meal on the portable stove and go to bed. Despite the cold Lung had taken to sleeping in the open, saying that he slept better that way. The tethered horses were their sentries.

However hard the ground, Theodore normally slept till dawn, and if he dreamed the images were lost beneath many layers of slumber. That night, though, he chose his sleeping-place carelessly and woke at an unguessable hour with his left leg completely numb where a lump of stone had pressed into a nerve. As he turned to ease it he groaned, still half asleep, and then he was wide awake, conscious that something had responded
to
his groan. There had been a noise and it had stopped. There was no wind. He listened till he heard a horse fidget, and knew at once that it had not been that. Now he was tense. Wild animal? Wolf? Bear? The men from the forest? No – the horses would be making more noise. Slowly he relaxed, and as he edged towards sleep once more his mind recreated the sound he had heard. It had been a laugh, very quiet, ending in whispered words. Not one voice, but two.

He was asleep before he worked out what it meant, and in the morning had forgotten the incident until they were loading the horses and Lung said something to Mrs Jones, out of Theodore’s earshot, and she laughed.

Even so, they had been travelling for some hours before he decided that he knew for certain that Lung and Mrs Jones were lovers. (Adulterers was the word he used in his mind.) After the first chill little shock – more unease than shock – at the memory of the laugh in the night, he had told himself that he must be mistaken. He was, in fact, instantly ashamed of his own nasty-mindedness. But then, as he noticed the behaviour of the other two to each other he became amazed at himself for not having noticed it earlier. It was as though they were talking, in glance and tone and gesture, a secret language to which he had hitherto been deaf; now he could hear it, though he still couldn’t understand the words. He remembered a sentence of Mrs Jones’s, bitten short, just after she had first seen their pursuers. He remembered their clowning the previous day, almost puppy-like in its spontaneous happiness. He remembered that first night on the plateau when he had fallen asleep in the cave and had been carried down those difficult
steps
to the tent . . . that was when it had started, he was vividly sure.

He came to these conclusions erratically, with many moments when he had almost persuaded himself that the opposite was true, or that he had not seen things which he knew he had seen, or that he had never heard Mrs Jones laugh to her lover in the dark – that it had all been a dream. He even wondered whether he was going mad. His own reactions to the knowledge troubled him almost as much as the knowledge itself. Here was an outright breaking of one of the Commandments, and he knew that what he ought to have felt was a mixture of pity and horror – pity for the sinners, horror for the deed. These emotions were there, but if he was honest with himself they were not his main emotions. He could summon them up if he concentrated, but as soon as he relaxed his will they disappeared in a storm of other emotions – a sense of betrayal, a curious jealousy at being left out of the secret, a slightly squeamish but inquisitive surprise that it was possible for two people so far apart in age to feel like that about each other, shame at his own cowardice in not denouncing them, in continuing to travel with them, in (to be honest) still wanting their company and their liking. What they were doing was wrong – wicked – but it did not feel like that. They were so happy, and Mrs Jones at least seemed to want Theodore to share in their happiness. In fact, when she tried to make him join in one of her songs and he rebuffed her, smiling thinly and shaking his head, he felt as if it was he who was doing wrong. It was like uprooting some cheerful little flower because it happens to be a weed.

By this time the nature of the terrain had altered. All morning the line of mountain below the snow-peaks had been losing its blue-purple vagueness and acquiring shape, ceasing to be a wall and becoming a series of steep spurs and screens, like the beginnings of roots round the bole of an enormous tree. Soon the real climbing would begin, though it was many miles still to the peaks. There was no track that Theodore could see, but the path on P’iu-Chun’s map followed the line of the enormous gorge for a while, then swung away, doubled back and reached it again at a lake, right up among the mountains.

‘Here’s where Mr What’s-is-name’s poor road begins,’ said Mrs Jones, almost eagerly, as if welcoming the challenge.

‘No way through,’ said Lung, shading his eyes like a hunter and scanning the whole line of mountains.

‘Hark to old eagle-eye!’ said Mrs Jones. ‘Now look here. See where that shoulder sticks out? The gorge runs in south of that, and I ’spect it is where it is ’cause it comes out through a crack in the mountains and there’s no way through that side, so we got to get up behind the shoulder from the other side, and from the way he’s drawn it it ain’t no use heading straight up, we got to start out along that next spur there, and even that’s not going to be much of a party.’

She was right. After the days of easy travelling the journey slowed to an endless-seeming trudge across slant shale and scree, resting every hour and lucky to do two miles between rests, leading the horses almost all the way, seldom daring to look up from the ground for fear that a careless step would begin a hundred-foot slither, perhaps
to
a sheer cliff edge. The wind whipped savagely off the mountains, relaxed, and came again in buffeting gusts from unpredictable directions.

They camped that night on a slant platform of coarse grass, and almost had their tents washed away when a thunderstorm boiled up all round them in the small hours. Rollo cut a knee, wrestling with his tether in the panic, so they had to redistribute the loads, treating poor Sir Nigel as a common pack-horse. Next day they barely made ten miles, but reached at last the point where the spur they had been climbing rooted into the main mass of the rampart, and up this mass they crawled slantwise for the next two days. Around the middle of the second day they met three men – copper-skinned, fur-booted, smiling – leading a train of loaded yaks down the barely visible path and gossiped with them for a while in shreds of Mandarin. Yes, this was the road to the lake. No, no-one would stop them. So few people used this path that there was no real border. But yes, somewhere beyond lay Tibet.

Next morning they climbed the last few miles to the saddle and crossed the invisible border. It was icy cold. Patches of stale snow lay all along the level, and barely a blade of grass or other vegetation showed among the loose-lying rubble and gravel between. On either side the slopes curved up, harsh rock and loose boulders merging into the true snow-fields, never melting even in the height of summer. Mrs Jones made sure, despite the cold, that where the gentle-seeming sun beat down on them their skin was covered all the time. ‘Surprising how it can burn you at this height,’ she said. ‘All blisters I was once, up in the Andes. And don’t you go staring at them
snow
-fields or you’ll have a headache you’ll never forget.’

So, muffled against scorching as much as freezing, they trudged across the pass, with the horses gasping all the time at the poor, thin air. At last, after weary hours, they halted and stood gazing down at a long gash of a valley slanting into the tumbled mountains. The crack that had opened and let the river through was here more than a gorge. On its far side the cliffs rose almost perpendicular, but on this side it was as though half the mountain had been scooped away to create this valley. At their feet the path wriggled down a plunging bare slope until, thousands of feet below them, it came to the trees. Even from this height Theodore could see that it was nothing like the clogged and rotting forest where they had met the Black Lolo, but a pure stand of flat-topped pines with almost blue needles and a pinkish glimmer of trunks beneath. And thousands more feet below the trees lay the lake, so dark blue it was almost black, reflecting the tremendous cliff beyond.

‘This sacred place,’ said Lung in English.

‘You been here before, then?’ said Mrs Jones, mockingly.

‘I feel excellent ghosts.’

‘Let’s hope not. Now we’ll get a move on, so we can camp down among them trees, with a bit of luck find a clearing where the horses can forage, poor things, or they won’t be no use to us, not after what we been through these last few days.’

She hitched up her skirt and coaxed Albert, too tired and starved now to make trouble, down the first stretch of path.

It took them half the afternoon to reach the
tree
-line, but all the time the air became warmer and stronger, and sweeter too as the faint smell of the pines drifted towards them. And then, with their calves aching from the downward slope, they were among the trees, walking on pine-needles instead of rock and seeing on either side the pillars of the trees rising to the blue-green roof. There was some undergrowth – rhododendrons and trails of yellow-flowered clematis, but the whole impression was of almost ordered space, of mottled shadow and deep silence.

Still the slope plunged down, with the path twisting back and forth between the trees but heading generally west along the valley. They were beginning to look for a place to camp when Mrs Jones halted and handed her reins to Theodore before darting upwards into the wood. About twenty yards from the path she dropped to her knees in a nook between two glossy green mounds of rhododendron. She stayed quite still for more than a minute, just as if absorbed in sudden prayer, but her body hid whatever she was looking at until she rose and backed slowly away, still staring, still unmistakably worshipping. What she had found was a single lily-plant, a stem about three feet high fringed along its length with insignificant down-curled leaves, and at the top five trumpets of intense pale yellow, amid the shadowy browns and greens and blues of the wood a colour as sharp as the call of a bird.

She came back to the path shaking her head slowly from side to side. There was a shiver in her voice which Theodore hadn’t heard before.

‘That’s new,’ she said. ‘That’s me name in all the books. I’ll lay my best bib and tucker no-one’s
never
seen that before. Ain’t it a beauty! Where did I pack my trowel, Lung?’

‘Not time for digging,’ said Lung, a little sourly. ‘Must find grass for horses, place for camp.’

He was jealous. Even Theodore could hear that he resented her passion for this flower. She must have thought so too, to judge by her laugh.

‘If you say so,’ she said. ‘Fair enough, I’ll come along of you for a bit. We must be getting down near that there lake by now, and there ought to be somewhere along there. But I warn you, if we don’t fetch up somewhere good in half an hour I’m coining back, even if it means riding half the night to catch you up again.’

‘Maybe we find more flower,’ said Lung mildly.

‘That’s right. There can’t be just the one.’

They walked on. The slope, easing now, took the path down slantwise another mile or so into an area where the pines gave way to oak and the undergrowth was much more varied and profuse. Here Mrs Jones halted again and studied the tree-tops to their left.