Path of the Eclipse (31 page)

They made no religious observances and took no measures to protect themselves against the malicious spirits that haunt the trails, looking for victims to lure to their deaths. The one with the powerful eyes has demonstrated unnatural strength, and though he goes armed, he has not struck one blow. It has been suggested by the oldest lamas at this lamasery that if the man is as advanced a being as we have reason to believe, his sword is merely a symbol, an Attribute granted him by All-Wise Heaven.

They have camped in the Long Shadow Grove, where no man camps for fear of the ghosts of the brigands who died there a century ago. These men were not afraid and went to the worst part of the grove without incident. They rose before first light and have, in the last few moments, according to the lamas who have watched them, got ready to journey southward.

We are sending the herdboy STam to them, to offer to act as guide. Most of the lamas agree that if these remarkable beings wished our help, they would have come to us and commanded it. As it is, because they have chosen to live in this unassuming guise, we have decided to do what we can to aid them without an unseemly intrusion. STam will act as guide, and if they are willing, will bring them to your lamasery so that they may meet with the Master of our Order.

We of the Rdo-rje DBang-bzhi lamasery send our assurances of devotion to the Master SGyi Zhel-ri and meditate upon his enlightened teachings in the course of every day. Surely the Eightfold Path and Consecrations are fulfilled in him, and we advance in spirituality through the merit of his lessons. May he have a long life, incur no debts and find release from the Wheel.

By the hand of the Abbot Bhota-bris Lung, by messenger, after morning prayers.

5

“There!” the herdboy STam shouted, pointing toward the crest of a nearby peak. “That is Bya-grub Me-long ye-shys lamasery.” He was far more excited than the two others with him: he bounced in the saddle of his Spiti pony and waved both his hands.

Snow was drifting quietly out of a steel-colored sky. There were almost no shadows to mark the passing of the day, though it had to be midafternoon. Saint-Germain drew up his pony and looked back at Rogerio, addressing him in Greek.

“What do you think, old friend? Shall we chance this monastery?” He was suffering from the curious indifference that deep hunger sometimes visited upon him. At such times, he could not convince himself that he must take action to change this or ravening need would suddenly seize him. He had not experienced that frenzy in more than a thousand years, but the memory of it still had the power to horrify him.

“It might be interesting,” Rogerio said cautiously. “We don’t know what they might expect of us, but it is probably better than spending another night in the snow.”

“True enough.” Saint-Germain called out to the herdboy in the few awkward phrases he had managed to learn in the last four days on the road. “We will go there. You lead us.”

STam’s smile was very broad as he turned off the main road onto a path flanked by low stone fences. “You see, even in the snow, you can find the road,” he enthused.

A little of his pleasure communicated itself to Saint-Germain. “You have been here before.”

“Once. Then I was only allowed as far as the outer gate. This time they will let me in because I am bringing you.” He was so delighted that he did not see the quick meeting of eyes between Saint-Germain and Rogerio.

“Why would that make a difference?” Saint-Germain inquired blandly, his small hands tightening on the reins.

“You are strangers, and the Master is always curious about strangers,” the youth answered, suddenly very circumspect.

Keeping his tone genial, Saint-Germain continued in Rogerio’s native Latin. “This would be a difficult place to escape from, as you can see. The walls are high and there are apparently two sets of them. If I know anything about monks, there will be someone up at every hour, and moving about in a strange place is always dangerous.” He gave a brief laugh and Rogerio dutifully echoed it. “Do not let the boy see your apprehension.”

“There may be no reason for concern,” Rogerio pointed out.

“You say that, after what the good Brothers did to Ranegonde’s lover?” he asked, not quite able to maintain his mendacious good humor. “Or the way the Frankish Benedictines encouraged the good people of Lyon to burn Herchambaut and Javotte and Yolande—have you forgotten that?”

“No, my master. I have not forgotten.” His voice was somber and he fell silent.

The outer gates of the monastery were high, massive and without adornment. From high above them a strange horn sounded, and the gates swung open.

“We may pass through,” STam announced importantly, and led the way, saying a few words Saint-Germain and Rogerio could not hear to the small party of robed men who met them inside the gates.

“Impressive,” Saint-Germain said dryly, still speaking Latin. “I think we may have trouble leaving, if all the doors and walls are like this.”

Ahead of them was another wall, not so high as the outer one, but much more elaborate. It was carved and painted in a variety of bright colors, and there were representations of the Buddha in every conceivable pose and shade. Each of the six doors leading into that building was guarded by huge statues of fierce monsters, most of them in warlike postures and carrying a gruesome array of weapons.

“You must not ride the ponies through the next door,” STam said earnestly as he dismounted. “Only men may pass through that door.”

“Indeed,” Saint-Germain murmured sardonically, dismounting. He glanced at the ponies, each carrying precious bags of his native earth. He looked at the herdboy, saying as simply as he could, “I must have what the ponies carry. If I am without it, bad things will happen to me.” He was not entirely certain he had said it properly, but STam smiled eagerly.

“I will tell them. They will place the bags in your quarters, do not fear it.” He swaggered a little as he walked to the lamas so that he would not reveal too much of the awe that almost overwhelmed him. He spoke loudly so that Saint-Germain could hear him. “The distinguished foreigner requires that all the contents of the packsaddles, without exception, be taken to the quarters he is assigned. It is most important, and he has said that bad things will happen if it is not done.”

This pronouncement stirred the lamas to action, and one with a more elaborate headdress than the others turned to Saint-Germain and bowed very low.

“They will do it,” STam said merrily, coming back across the courtyard. He beamed up at Saint-Germain. “What bad thing would you do?”

Saint-Germain’s expression was wholly bleak with the desolation he had carried within him for all his long years. “Feed.” He had said it in his native language, which Rogerio knew imperfectly, but he recognized the pain in his master’s face, and put one hand on his arm.

“Don’t. Something will be arranged.”

Quickly Saint-Germain nodded, forcing his thoughts away from the need that grew in him.

The apparent leader of the lamas hurried up and abased himself. “I am the Guardian, Bsnyen-la Ras-gsal. I bid you welcome to the Bya-grub Me-long ye-shys lamasery on behalf of the Abbot and the Master.” He made three ritual gestures, and rose.

“A reassuring beginning,” Saint-Germain remarked to Rogerio in Latin, then summoned most of what he had learned from STam. “It is a great honor to be welcomed here. My companion and I are most grateful.” He knew that he had not pronounced the words very well, but the Guardian beamed at him and ushered him toward the ornately carved gate.

“Come, then, and accept what poor hospitality we can offer you.” He rapped a pattern on the gilded wood, and waited respectfully as the double doors swung inward. He bowed again and indicated that the visitors should enter. “I am not of sufficiently advanced rank to enter by this door,” he explained as he stood back.

“I hope that is the true reason,” Saint-Germain said softly to Rogerio as they went through the doors, STam trailing behind them with a frankly astonished expression on his face.

Another lama, with more elaborate headgear, was waiting for them, and when he spoke, the eerie horn blast that had accompanied the opening of the main gate was repeated.

“It is my pleasant duty to show you to your quarters,” he said, indicating a wide hallway lined with scrolls of painted silk showing various lamas performing a number of feats most of which Saint-Germain assumed were allegorical. In the largest scroll, a man in a lama’s robe fended off a flying creature with a double set of horns and fangs, whose twisted green body was covered with eyes. There were a number of pillars along the hallway, each with an elaborately painted capital. The ceiling, too, was painted, each section between the beams having a different design, most of which were repeated geometrical patterns. Here the predominant colors were rust, deep blue, and bright yellow.

In one of the large rooms they passed, fifty lamas sat on the stone floor, their legs crossed, facing an altar on which an enormous gold statue of Buddha seated on a lotus was placed. The lamas were chanting quietly: a few of them held the rattlelike insruments in their hands which Saint-Germain had discovered were called prayer wheels.

“Up these stairs,” the lama who was leading them said, and the men at prayer were quickly behind them.

Their assigned rooms faced the north. The walls were thick wood, and the tiny windows were high and narrow, providing a little light. There were two sections to Saint-Germain’s quarters, both scantily furnished. To Saint-Germain’s surprise, all the bags and the Roman chest were stacked in one corner. It did not appear that they had been opened.

As he started to open the Roman chest, the air was filled with a low, shuddering note—one of the huge temple gongs was being rung. The sound of it was not so much heard as felt. It trembled and echoed once, twice, a third time, and then was silent.

“How often do they do that?” Rogerio asked from the door.

“I have no idea,” Saint-Germain answered. He indicated the sacks and his chest. “They said they would bring them, and they did. I’m somewhat perplexed.”

Rogerio’s blue eyes grew bright with relief. “So they did,” he said, coming across the room to have a better look at them.

“Where are your rooms?” Saint-Germain went to the door and looked down the hall. Though there was no one in sight, he said, “I think it will be best if we speak Latin and Greek. Doubtless there are men here who know Chinese, and I would wager a few of the Islamic explorers have got this far. No Persian, then, and no Arabic.”

“Latin and Greek,” Rogerio agreed. “Latin, preferably.”

Saint-Germain managed to smile slightly. “Nostalgia?”

“Convenience,” his servant answered. “Do you wish me to make up a bed for you?” he went on in a different tone, indicating the earth-filled bags.

“It would be wise. I don’t know how long I will have to go without other … nourishment, and so I must rely on my native earth to sustain me.” He looked at the raised pallet against the wall. “That is the bed, I assume. You can improvise some sort of a matress with the shelter cloths and the bags, and that should be sufficient.”

Rogerio nodded. “It won’t take me too long.”

“Do you wish my help?” Saint-Germain inquired, knowing the answer as he did.

“No. Of course not.” He hesitated, then said, “I understand there is a bathhouse somewhere in this building. When you return I will have clothes set out for you.”

Saint-Germain looked at the Roman chest. “You’d better store Masashige’s sword in the back panel. There are a couple dozen jewels there, and it might be wise to have a few of them ready, in case we have need of them.” He put his hand on the chest. “If we ever find a place to stay for a while, I must build another athanor and replenish our supply of gold and jewels. It’s ridiculous to try to set up an establishment on so little.”

“Were you planning to establish yourself here, then?” Rogerio asked, startled.

“No, not here. It would not be terrible, however, to have a few months of calm.” He shook off the despondency that had begun to take hold of him. “I’ll see if I can find the bathhouse.” With that he stepped into the hall.

A lama found him a little while later and guided him to the low wooden structure where the baths were. Saint-Germain thanked him and gave himself up to the oblivion of warm water and steamy rooms.

True to his word, Rogerio had set out a change of clothes, and Saint-Germain donned them with relief. He dressed with Frankish elegance, in a long tunic of black wool embroidered at cuffs, hem and collar with red silk. Over that he wore a cote of sable lined with black Venetian velvet. The silver chain with the black-and-ruby pectoral was pinned on his shoulders. His boots were of Byzantine design—reaching above the knees and having tall heels and thick soles. As he finished dressing, he flicked his short, loose curls to dry his hair. Then he sat in the one low chair and waited. He was certain that after such a welcome there would be more expected of him.

The sound of the chanting from the central room had grown louder when there came a knock at his door. Saint-Germain rose and answered it, and found himself facing a bent old man in a shapeless woolen robe. “I am not a lama,” he said to Saint-Germain. “I am merely the servant of the Abbot, who would be grateful if you might spare him a moment of your time.”

There was little else for Saint-Germain to do, but he responded politely, “I am grateful that the Abbot will see me.” He hesitated. “My servant…”

“He will be told where you have gone and when he should expect you to return.” The old man smiled toothlessly and bowed in the direction of the main hall. “The Abbot’s quarters are in the south tower.”

Saint-Germain acknowledged this with a gesture and fell into step behind the old man. The sharp report of his heeled boots marked their progress down the hall.

As on the main floor, scrolls and murals covered these walls, depicting spiritual beings in symbolic manifestations. There were three wooden statues along the way, each gilt and painted. Saint-Germain noticed that all the figures had intensely blue hair, and he wished he could stop the old man and ask why. He contented himself with the reminder that he would be here most of the winter, and during that time he would learn much.