Imperial Fire (42 page)

‘We won’t leave you.’ Wayland said. He rocked back on his haunches. ‘Keep talking to him,’ he told Yonden.

He opened his pack and pulled out a flask Hero had given him. It contained a liquid the Greek called ‘drowsy mixture’, formulated to dull pain during surgery. Hero had cautioned him about the dosage – more than three or four spoonfuls and the patient might not wake up. With shaking hands Wayland emptied half the contents into a beaker and bore the lethal chalice to Toghan.

‘Drink it,’ Wayland said. ‘It’s a cure-all prepared by our friend Hero.’

Toghan managed a crooked smile. ‘I enjoyed our time together,’ he said, and swallowed the mixture.

Wayland stroked the Seljuk’s brow. ‘There,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll watch over you until you fall asleep. When you wake, you’ll find yourself in paradise.’

Toghan would have died in the night anyway, but this way was much faster. His eyes wandered and he whispered a halting air before his eyes glazed and closed. Yonden was chanting prayers for a good rebirth. Wayland hauled him upright and spoke through chattering teeth.

‘Toghan’s gone. We’ll follow him if we don’t get out of the cold.’

That night Wayland lay wide-eyed in the dark, thinking about death and the infinite variety of ways it could strike. He recoiled from Zuleyka’s gentle touch.

‘Don’t.’

Burial wasn’t possible in the frozen barrens. Wayland and Yonden interred Toghan’s corpse under a cairn of stones facing the rising sun.

‘You go on,’ Wayland told the others.

The words he struggled to articulate were directed at himself more than Toghan. He’d challenged the wilderness and lost, just as Vallon had predicted, and his pride had cost three men their lives.

Wayland rose and stood looking towards the north, wondering where his companions were and heartsick that he would never see them again.

Four days later he checked his horse, amazed at the sight of a moon rising in the south while another moon slid to rest in the west. A rub of his eyes showed that the rising moon was a snow pyramid isolated against a slaty sky.

Yonden dismounted and prostrated himself. ‘The Precious Snow Jewel,’ he said. ‘Our journey’s nearly over.’

Wayland learned that the mountain was sacred to Buddhists, Bon-pos, Hindus and Jains. To Buddhists it was the centre of the universe, the axis on which the world turned and the fount of four great rivers – the Indus, the Tsangpo or Brahmaputra, the Karnali and the Sutlej, all of which breached the Himalayan range. To the Bon-pos, who had grafted the teachings of Lord Buddha onto their shamanistic traditions, it was the Nine-Stacked Swastika Mountain. Hindus called it Mount Kailas or Meru and believed that Shiva resided on its summit. For Jains it was the place where the founder of their faith achieved liberation from the endless cycle of death and rebirth.

It took three days to reach the sacred mountain. The huge clefts that isolated it from the other peaks formed a pilgrim trail marked by shrines called chortens and walls constructed from slabs incised with holy texts and planted with prayer flags. The travellers encountered hundreds of pilgrims circumambulating the mountain, the Buddhists keeping it to their right, the Bon-pos taking the opposite direction. Some of the pilgrims had spent years journeying to their goal and made their final devotions by dragging themselves around the circuit on bleeding hands and knees.

From the south the mountain was even more beautiful, its chiselled mass rising above two huge lakes, its vertical banded walls inscribed by slashes that did indeed resemble a swastika. What dispelled its aura of spirituality was the squalid settlement thrown up by merchants to milk the pilgrims of every last penny. Wandering through a bazaar, fending off touts offering charms, medicines and souvenirs for unholy prices, Wayland emerged to see the Himalayas filling the southern sky.

They stayed only long enough to buy provisions before turning east. After a week following the Tsangpo along a road that led to Lhasa, Yonden struck south through shattered hills. Three days later he led the way up onto a ridge.

Wayland doffed his hat. Before him spread a grassland plain stirred into gentle waves by a breeze. On the other side clouds rising up from dark and hidden valleys smoked about the golden roofs and white walls of a monastery built on a spur jutting over a precipice. Above the fastness rose mountain walls with three tremendous ice summits soaring behind them. Dhaulagiri, Manaslu and Annapurna, Yonden said. Peaks no mortal could scale.

The way to the monastery had been hacked out of rock and it was nearly dark by the time the party reached the top of the mountain staircase. Yonden tugged on a bell and a monk opened a door with timbers six inches thick.

‘I’ve returned,’ Yonden said.

‘We were expecting you,’ said the monk.

He led the way into the monastery, the lugubrious blast of conch shells and the clash of cymbals echoing off the cliffs.

Yonden pleaded with Wayland to remain in the monastery over winter. ‘The Himalayan passes will be blocked by snow. Also, this is the season when gangs of bandits prey on travellers returning from pilgrimage.’

‘I can’t wait six months. If I leave now I could be home by spring. Tell me what route to take.’

Yonden led him to the top of a high wall and pointed west across copper and ochre hills. ‘Travel two days in that direction and you’ll reach a road used by salt traders.’ He faced the other way. ‘Three days’ east there’s a pilgrim trail leading to the kingdom of Mustang and the flaming shrine at Muktinath. I advise you to take the salt road. It’s easier.’

‘Which path will take me to the temple of the Christian hermit?’

‘Neither. None of the monks has ever been there. It’s just a place my grandfather told me about.’

‘You mean it might not exist?’

‘No, it lies in a valley a few days’ east of Mustang, reached by a pass used only by the people who live in that wild settlement. The pass will already be closed. It’s almost as high as the peaks that surround it and is open for only a few weeks in summer.’

Wayland scanned the range. The sky above the peaks was indigo, so dark it looked like the far reaches of space.

‘It would be a pity to come so near to the temple and not visit it.’

Yonden summoned an elderly monk. ‘Tsosang used to buy herbal medicines from traders in the valley. They sold a rare plant called “summer grass, winter insect”, a remedy against diseases of the chest. Tsosang says it’s been three years since they called at the monastery. Avalanches must have blocked the pass. There are no guides to lead you. Please don’t attempt the journey on your own.’

‘I would only satisfy my curiosity for Hero’s sake. I have no intention of risking my life. I’ll take a look at the route and if it’s too difficult I’ll follow the path through Mustang.’

On the eve of departure Wayland visited Zuleyka. Since arriving at the monastery he’d hardly seen her. He handed her a pile of clothes, including a full-length sheepskin robe.

‘Take these. It will be bitter cold in the mountains.’

‘I thought you were going to leave me behind.’

‘I considered it. I don’t want another death on my conscience.’

‘I’d never have been able to find my own way out of Tibet.’

‘I’m not travelling with you to Persia. Once we’re across the Himalayas, that’s it.’

‘I’ll be safe once I reach India. Luri communities live there. It’s where my people came from.’

Wayland nodded but didn’t answer.

Zuleyka blushed. ‘You’re looking at me in a strange way.’

‘Am I? Sorry. It’s time we went to our beds. We have an early start.’

She caught his sleeve as he turned. ‘No, tell me what that look meant.’

Wayland stared at the ground. ‘You don’t need me to tell you.’

‘I want to hear it in your own words.’

Wayland wrenched away. ‘I was thinking how lovely you are.’

Yonden and a dozen other monks saw them off. ‘Promise you won’t allow your fascination with the temple to lure you into danger. Remember what I said about the land of Shambhala. By the time you realise you’ll never reach it, it’s too late to turn back.’

‘I promise,’ Wayland said. He heaved himself into the saddle. ‘I haven’t asked what life holds for you now.’

The monks chanted blessings and spun hand-held prayer wheels. Yonden smiled. ‘Tomorrow I’ll be immured in a cell and won’t see another being for a year.’

‘I’ve seen you breathe in the scent of flowers and admire a shapely woman. You’ll go mad cut off from the world.’

‘I’ll have holy texts to study and the cell has a window facing east. Whenever I look through it, I’ll be with you in spirit.’

Yonden’s last act was to drape white silk scarves around Wayland and Zuleyka’s necks. ‘Farewell, my friends. Buddha and all the good spirits go with you.’

The monastery had provided them with fresh horses and three yaks, each with a handler. Horses couldn’t cross the pass into Mustang. Once they reached the final approach, the handlers would take them back to the monastery, together with two of the yaks.

Fearful of bandit attack, the Tibetan escort sought safety in company, joining groups of traders and pilgrims travelling the highway to Lhasa. An uneventful journey brought them to the trail leading to Mustang, and then they struck off the beaten track, heading south into wild and uninhabited country.

Two days later they came upon a solitary shrine by the faint impression of a track leading into the mountains.

‘It’s the way to the temple,’ one of the Tibetans said.

Wayland looked up into a cauldron of boiling clouds that swirled apart to reveal glimpses of glaciers, tumbled ice-falls and knife-edged buttresses. Thunder rolled and lightning clawed between summits. It was like staring into an aerial abyss inhabited by warring gods and titans.

‘Christ,’ Wayland breathed. ‘I’m not going up there.’ He turned to the leader of the escort. ‘We’ll take the Mustang trail.’

Returning towards the highway, they spotted a terminal of smoke rising from nowhere and made a wide detour before pitching camp on a desolate tableland. Wayland fed Freya a full crop.

‘Tomorrow I’ll release her,’ he told Zuleyka.

The dog’s growls woke him late in the night. He untied the entrance to his tent and looked out. The moon drifting through clouds cast light just bright enough to show Freya seated on her perch. He could tell from her tense, two-footed stance that she was nervous.

‘What is it?’ Zuleyka whispered behind him.

‘Probably wolves,’ he said, not really believing it.

He crawled out. The dog faced upwind, jaws rucked back and a snarl bubbling deep in its throat.

Wayland caught a whiff of tallow and mildewed wool. He squirmed back into the tent.

‘Our visitors walk on two legs,’ he said.

To her credit, Zuleyka didn’t panic. ‘Bandits?’

‘Nobody else would sneak up on a lonely camp at dead of night. Wait here.’

Zuleyka threw off her coverings. ‘I’m coming with you.’

They waited until the moon disappeared behind clouds before creeping to the Tibetans’ tent. Wayland’s news threw them into panic.

‘Keep your voices down,’ he hissed.

‘How many are there?’ one said.

‘I don’t know. I assume they outnumber us.’

The Tibetans gabbled like frightened geese. ‘The devils never travel in gangs of less than a dozen. We’re too few to fight them. Let’s escape now, under the cloak of night.’

Wayland shook the man. ‘They’ll hear us loading and saddling.’

‘We’ll have to go on foot and leave the beasts.’

Wayland argued in vain for them to stay. Terror had seized the Tibetans and headlong flight was the only way to put it behind them. They delayed only long enough to throw a few possessions together before creeping out of the tent.

Wayland grabbed one of them. ‘If you’re going to flee, at least do it properly. Wait for the moon to hide.’ He gripped tight until the earth went into eclipse, then gave a push. ‘That way. Run and keep on running.’

Zuleyka fumbled for him. ‘Why aren’t we going with them?’

‘We’re safer on our own.’

‘Wayland!’

‘Hush.’ His finger traced her mouth. ‘It will soon be light. If the bandits find an empty camp they’ll come after us. On foot we’ll never get away. They’ll catch us and kill us.’

‘They’ll kill us if we stay here.’

‘I think I can talk our way out.’

Clouds covered the moon. Wayland took Zuleyka’s hand and ran for their tent. He pulled the bed covers over both of them.

‘Are we just going to sit here?’

‘The dog will warn us if they attack. They won’t, though.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s dark and they don’t know how many they’re facing.’

Zuleyka shivered against him. ‘I’m scared. You know what they’ll do to me.’

He put an arm around her and nestled her face on his chest. Her shudders subsided.

‘This is the first time you’ve shown tenderness to me.’

‘It’s the first time I’m certain that tenderness won’t flare into passion.’

He could feel her heart beating as fast as a bird’s. He stroked her hair. Outside, the eagle roused and adjusted its position. He thought Zuleyka was asleep when she whispered his name.

‘Tell me about your wife.’

‘No.’

‘I don’t even know her name.’

‘I’d rather keep it to myself.’

‘You’re scared that I’ll put the evil eye on her.’

‘Would you?’

‘Perhaps. Is she beautiful?’

‘I knew you were going to say that.’

‘Well, is she?’

‘Yes.’

‘More beautiful than me?’

‘You’re opposites. She’s as fair as you’re dark.’

‘Tell me about your children.’

‘Why do you keep asking questions?’

‘It helps keeps fear away. Also, I want to know more about you before I die.’

‘My son’s eight, my daughter’s four.’

‘You must have been very young when you became a father.’

‘I was about your age.’

‘Does that mean you haven’t known another woman?’

Wayland gave a husky laugh. ‘This is the closest I’ve come.’

Zuleyka rose up and peered at him though the dark before settling again.

‘What about you?’ he said. ‘I don’t believe you’re a virgin.’

‘I am when I want to be.’

Wayland’s chuckle began in his belly and worked up through his chest.

‘What’s so funny?’

The dog barked. Wayland threw off the covers and reached for his war bow.

‘Time to prepare for our guests.’

He waited beside the dog, an arrow nocked and another dozen close to hand. Zuleyka crouched behind him. The dog growled continuously and the eagle bated from its perch. Wayland stood.

‘Ho! Who approaches from behind the curtain of night?’

‘Harmless travellers,’ a voice said. ‘We saw your fire last night and wondered who was camping in such a lonely place.’

‘I’m surprised you took so long to show yourselves. I hope it wasn’t fear that held you back.’

The dog ran stiff-legged towards the bandits and stood with mane raised, barking defiance. Wayland called it back.

Dawn when it came was just a pale version of night, the landscape leached of colour and the mountains smothered under clouds.

‘Now I see you. Welcome, untamed sons.’

Fourteen mounted shapes materialised out of the half-light. Zuleyka muffled a scream. ‘They’re demons.’

Moulded leather masks hid the bandits’ faces, giving them a terrifying aspect. Apart from the masks, there was little agreement in their costume or weaponry. Some wore black or wine-red chubas, one sleeve dangling like wrinkled trunks, exposing their hairless chests to the freezing air. Some were bare-headed, their ropy black locks set off with eagle feathers and cowrie shells. Others wore sheepskin helmets or fox fur hats. Most carried swords of various designs, a crude sabre being the most fashionable. Others made do with lances or clubs. All had short bows slung over their shoulders.

At the centre of the band a man distinguished by a corselet of fine but distressed mail raised a hand and gave an oddly girlish little wave.

‘I was about to prepare breakfast,’ Wayland said. ‘Please join us.’

The gang halted. ‘Where are your companions?’ said the mail-clad leader.

‘They fled in the night. They thought you might be bandits.’

The masked men looked at each other through their leather peepholes and then advanced. One of them slashed the yak herders’ tent before peering inside.

‘Where did they go?’

Wayland shrugged. ‘Back to the road.’

The leader looked down on Wayland from his saddle. ‘Where have you come from?’

‘The Palace of Perfect Emancipation.’

‘Ah. Where are you going?’

Wayland pointed. ‘Nepal.’

‘Ah. You won’t reach it that way.’

Wayland crouched and kindled a dung fire into flame. The leader watched him, then leaned down and lifted his blond hair. He gave it a tug, testing to see if it was a wig.

‘What country are you from?’

‘England,’ said Wayland. He reached up in turn and raised the bandit’s mask. Bloodshot eyes looked at him from a face coated with soot, grease and dust. One scarred eyelid sagged in a squint. He wore his hair piled-up in ribboned braids that unbound would have hung to his waist. At odds with his cut-throat countenance, he wore around his neck an amulet showing an image of Buddha wearing a tranquil smile that represented his compassion for all living things

‘No wonder you wear a mask,’ Wayland said.

He was quick at languages, and in the three months spent with Yonden, he’d become a proficient Tibetan speaker, unwittingly picking up an aristocratic dialect.

One of the bandits tittered. The leader scowled round, then turned back to Wayland and bared rust-coloured fangs the shape of tombstones.

‘All of you show your faces,’ Wayland said. ‘You can’t drink tea wearing masks.’

The bandits exchanged glances. At their leader’s command, they uncovered themselves. Masked or bare, they were as complete a set of villains as Wayland had encountered in all his wanderings – wolf-faced and filthy, their faces coated with greasy dirt like a second skin.

The yak dung burned hot and bright, giving off no smoke. Wayland set a pot of water to boil. ‘My name’s Wayland. Who are you?’

The leader hesitated. ‘Osher.’ He pointed at Zuleyka. ‘Your wife?’

‘A nun. We’re making a pilgrimage to the shrine of one of our saints.’

‘Why didn’t you run away with the others?’

‘Unlike them, we’re not cowards.’

Osher seemed nonplussed. ‘Aren’t you frightened that we might be bandits?’

‘I
know
you’re bandits. Sit.’

‘Aren’t you scared that we’ll kill you?’

‘We can talk about that when you’ve drunk your tea. Before
I
kill anyone, I like to know as much about them as I can.’

Osher fanned out his chuba and subsided cross-legged on the ground. Half a dozen of his men joined him, the rest remaining mounted, some staring with vicious intent, some wearing loopy grins, others gawping and slack-jawed.