Authors: Daniel Easterman
He has carried out such tasks before.”
“What about my father?”
Christopher asked.
“Has he been harmed?”
Tsarong Rinpoche shrugged.
“He was the abbot,” he said.
“I could not leave him alive and hope to rule in his place.
He was a trulku.
It was time for him to be reborn.”
For the second time in his life, Christopher received news of his father’s death in silence.
The old man had come back to him out of darkness and returned to it again, unrecognized, unforgiven, almost unremembered.
Christopher was an heir to darkness now.
In the shadows behind him, the heavy bodies moved as a single body:
this was his inheritance and he knew it would soon be time for him to claim it.
“Was the Russian responsible for his death as well?”
The Rinpoche shook his head.
“No.
I took care of it myself.”
He paused.
“There is no time to talk.
Zam-ya-ting would like to see you.
You have been much on his mind since your arrival here.”
They set off at once, Tsarong Rinpoche leading the way, followed by Christopher and Chindamani, each with a monk at either arm.
As they walked, Christopher pondered on what had happened.
The work of clearing the monastery had been finished and Zamyatin was in complete control of that there could be little doubt.
Nominal leadership of the monastery had passed to Tsarong Rinpoche Christopher had already guessed that.
But the controlling force, the hand on all the strings, would be Zamyatin’s.
And beyond Zamyatin the new regime in Moscow.
They climbed towards the upper storey, passing bodies that had fallen on the stairs “What will you do with the men you have killed?” Christopher asked.
“How will you get rid of so many bodies?”
At first he thought the Rinpoche was not going to anwer.
Then he spoke, his voice remote and unconcerned, as though he had been a schoolmaster, one of whose pupils had asked a question about the Great Plague: “How did they bury them all, sir?”
“There will be a great sky burial,” the Rinpoche said.
“The air will be black with vultures.
It will take several days at least, but they are greedy birds and monks are thin meat.”
Christopher understood what he meant by a ‘sky burial’.
In a country where there was little soil and less timber, corpses were seldom buried or burned.
Instead, the bodies of the dead were taken out to high places and expertly dissected by men using butchers’ knives.
The meat was given to the vultures and the bones pounded to fine powder before being mixed with the brain and offered as a final titbit.
Christopher had once watched a vulture after such a feast, too heavy to lift itself from the ground, its great wings flapping obscenely in the silence of the hills.
Their path led inexorably to the top of the monastery, and at last to the long chorten hall, where the tombs stood silent in the half-light.
Copper and gold and silver gave off a dull glow, like death.
Waiting for them at the far end, bathed in candlelight, was a figure dressed all in black.
Zamyatin was dressed in the plainest of costumes: a cotton Chinese jacket and trousers.
His hair was cropped short, not shaven like that of the monks.
He sat cross-legged on a throne of cushions, for all the world like an incarnation of a deity from the underworld.
Christopher remembered something Winterpole had said to him before he left, about how the Bolsheviks all but worshipped History, how they had made it into a divinity that ordered all things in their universe.
Looking down the long hall at Zamyatin, he thought he saw History enthroned at last, the word made flesh again in a man.
Beside Zamyatin sat the two children, William and Samdup.
They were both clearly frightened, but were making a sustained effort to master their fear.
William was wearing Tibetan clothes in which he was manifestly uncomfortable.
Samdup wore an expensive brocade robe, and on his head he sported a blue pointed cap.
Both boys were staring sullenly at their feet.
Christopher could feel his heart pounding.
With every step, he expected William to look up and recognize him.
He raised a finger to his lips to tell his son not to make a sound, but he had to make an effort not to dash forward himself and embrace him.
Now they were within feet of the throne.
Zamyatin did not take his eyes off them once.
He watched them like a bird of prey that has seen its next victims and is waiting for the moment to swoop.
Christopher noticed that he had long, thin hands like claws.
They lay on his lap without moving, like the hands of a waxwork figure in a museum.
Suddenly, Samdup glanced up and saw Chindamani.
He cried out to her and rose to run in her direction, but Zamyatin reached out a long arm and pinned the boy by the wrist.
“Time enough, lambkin,” he said, ‘time enough.”
At that moment, William too looked up.
He looked straight at Christopher without recognizing him immediately.
Then Christopher smiled and the boy’s face altered in an instant.
“Father!”
he cried.
Christopher stopped in his tracks, frightened to say or do anything. He knew he should run forward, but now the moment had come, something inward held him back.
Was it an instinct that he should show no emotion in front of this man?
William cried out again and tried to rise.
Zamyatin took his wrist too and held him tight by his side.
He looked straight at Christopher.
As he did so, a shadow passed over his eyes and was gone.
It had only been there for a moment, but Christopher had felt the animosity like a physical blow.
They were only feet away now.
Christopher stopped and fixed his eyes on Zamyatin.
The Russian’s skin was pale, but his eyes were dark and quite alien to the rest of his face: they were restless, Oriental eyes, torrid, yet without real warmth.
But it was the mouth rather than the eyes that betrayed the man.
The lips were by nature soft, almost sensual; but he had trained them to a hardness that thinned and mutilated them.
Whatever in him was given to softness, whatever inclined him to luxury, had been starved and beaten until it cringed like a whipped dog in the darkest corners of his personality.
“What is my son doing here?”
demanded Christopher.
“I insist you free him at once.”
“You may speak only when I speak to you, Mr.
Wylam,” said Zamyatin in a weary voice.
“If you do not understand, I will help you understand.”
“For God’s sake, the boy has been through enough!
Willjou try to understand?
You’ve got what you came here for.
Let him go!”
Zamyatin said nothing.
He simply raised one finger of his right hand and gestured with it to someone standing behind Christopher.
Tsarong Rinpoche stepped forward, lifted a hand to Christopher’s neck, and pressed gently.
The pain was excruciating.
Christopher cried out and clasped his neck: the skin was unbroken, but the nerves still throbbed with agony.
“I assure you, Mr.
Wylam,” Zamyatin said, ‘that the new abbot of Dorje-la is not in the least like his predecessor.
But you may have guessed that already.”
“What are you doing with Lord Samdup?”
burst out Chindamani.
“Why have you taken him from his lab rang
Zamyatin reached out a thin hand and caressed the boy, running sharp fingers along his cheeks, as if he were a pet.
The expression on his face mocked her.
“Samdup and I are learning to be friends.
Aren’t we?”
he replied.
But Samdup shifted uneasily, pulling away from his hand.
“The boy is tired and frightened,” Chindamani said.
“He should not be here.
You have no right to be here, and no right to be with the boy.”
Zamyatin gave her a look that was like a slap across the face.
She reddened visibly as he snapped his answer.
“Don’t talk to me of rights, miss.
All the privileges are gone.
The people have taken this monastery.
I am their representative.
Tsarong Rinpoche is Dorje Lama now.
He will decide what rights and duties you have.”
Suddenly, Samdup leaned away from Zamyatin and appealed to Chindamani.
“Please, Chindamani,” he said.
“I don’t want to stay here.
I don’t understand what’s happening. Where is the Dorje Lama?
Who is this man?”
“I’m your friend,” Zamyatin said, raising his hand to stroke the boy again.
“You’re not my friend,” Samdup retorted.
“Chindamani is my friend.
Please, Chindamani, take me with you.
I don’t want to stay here.”
“He doesn’t want to be with you,” Chindamani snapped.
She was not going to let herself be cowed by Zamyatin and his bullying.
“Let me take him with me.
And the other child too.
They both need to sleep.
There are rooms on this floor we can go to.
You needn’t worry we won’t escape.
There’s nowhere to go.”
Zamyatin seemed to think it over.
“Very well, take them out of my sight for a while.
Read them bedtime stories I hear you’re very good at it.”
He paused and turned to Tsarong Rinpoche.
“Take her and the boys.
See they’re given comfortable quarters for tonight.
And make sure they’re well watched.
I’ll hold you responsible if you let them give you the slip.
Now, all of you get out.
I want to speak with Mr.
Wylam alone.”
As William passed, Christopher smiled at him and reached out a hand to touch his cheek.
The boy was crying, all elation at his father’s appearance dashed to nothing by the realization that Christopher was as helpless here as himself.
“Don’t worry, William,” Christopher called to him.
“We’re not done for yet.
Keep your spirits up.”
But his words sounded trite and hollow.
Things could scarcely be worse.
The Rinpoche and his men went out silently, taking Chindamani and the boys with them.
At the door, she turned to look at Christopher.
Their eyes met for a moment, then someone pulled her by the arm and she was gone.
“I see you like the girl,””Zamyatin said.
He spoke in English now, relaxed, urbane, mocking.
The disinherited nobleman had picked up a veneer of sophistication somewhere along the way.
Or had his urbanity come with the blood and the Slavic lips?
“She’s very nice, I don’t blame you.
I toyed with the idea myself at one point.
But women are a distraction you should know that.”
“A distraction from what?
From murder?”
“From real life, of course.
From the things that matter.
Here, come and sit near me.
It’s time we talked.”
Christopher took a cushion and sat facing Zamyatin, but he kept his distance: he wanted no intimacy with this man.
The Russian looked directly into his eyes.
“Your loyalty has impressed me, Major Wylam,” he said.
“I am not given to sentiment, but I will admit that this has taken me by surprise.
Clearly, it does not pay to discount the baser emotions.
You have my congratulations.
And my sympathy.
Though perhaps you rather think yourself in need of neither.”
Christopher said nothing.
“Believe me,” Zamyatin continued, ‘your son was not taken from you gratuitously.
It may have seemed that way to you, of course.
But I assure you, higher issues were at stake than you can possibly comprehend.
I would not expect you to support the ends for which your boy was kidnapped.
But I do expect you to acknowledge that what was done was done for the highest reasons.
Not for profit or sensual gratification, but for the very highest of motives.
You may condemn the action, but you must understand the justification.”
Christopher was growing angrier every moment.
“I’m the boy’s father!”
he exploded.
“How the hell do you expect me to tolerate what you’ve done?
Nothing gives you the right to kidnap a child and drag him off half-way across the world.
Nothing.”
“I’m sorry to hear you say that, Major.
I had expected at least some acknowledgement of sympathy for my position.
We are both professional men, you and I. You work for a country, I work for a cause.
If I were an enemy soldier, surely I would be entitled to your respect.
But I am fighting for a cause that stands above all petty particularities of race or nation the very prejudices that led to the world war.
And yet you refuse to accord me the honour you would accord an enemy soldier.”