.’
‘Well, tell me anything. What words has he said? His name?’
The girl looked confused.
‘No, lama. Sometimes he says things in Tibetan. Words like the monks use at public prayers. Then he speaks sometimes in other languages, languages I have never heard before, and then sometimes in English. He is delirious. He is calling for people I think. He is in so much pain. But once, when we stopped by the waterfall, he smiled and looked at me as if he could see me. He was happy. He held my arm and then he kept saying one thing only, over and over again: Shangri-La. Shangri-La. Shangri-La . . .’
The monk felt his heart stop and then resume suddenly, with a massive thump and a terrible pain, as if someone had just pushed a blunt needle into it. Trying to regain his composure, he nodded and then, with a sickly look on his face, he said, ‘Listen to him. Nurse him. Try to encourage him to speak.’
‘Yes, lama. I will remain by his side at all times.’
She stood up to go and then stopped.
‘Lama . . . what does it mean, Shangri-La?’
‘Don’t worry yourself girl,’ said the old lama. ‘Just stay by his side and tell me everything he says.’
She curtsied and left. The rain drummed on the tarpaulin. Shangri-La. The lama knew all too well what the word meant. It was the name that the Westerners gave to Shambala, the secret kingdom of the Himalayas that was hidden in the valleys to the west. Only a handful of lamas preserved the ancient secret knowledge of the precipitous route; even the Abbot himself was forbidden to approach.
He stared down at the stranger, as he lay like a corpse on the stretcher on the other side of the clearing, and then the lama shut his eyes and prepared to meditate.
Phantoms appeared in his mind’s eye. Images of long-dead lamas came to him – great lamas who had taught him as a boy. He could hear conversations in his head, as if he was back there, all those years ago, sitting at their feet. Once, at Kailash monastery, a venerable old lama had told him that a terrible war had once been fought in the lands of the West, far beyond the Himalayas. It had seemed at the time that the whole world was on the point of going over to the dark side; that the sun was going to set for ever on the world. Some white men had come, seeking the kingdom of Shambala. They intended to go there and ask the King for help. The lamas had tried to aid them on their quest. It had been a terrible mistake. The lamas did not realize that the white men came from a different world, a world steeped in blood. They should not have trafficked with them. They should never have helped them. Such men brought only destruction.
The deputy thought of these things and tried to regulate his breathing, but every time he attempted to begin his meditation the word on the stranger’s lips came back to haunt him: Shangri-La.
A desperate urge came over him to get up and run across the clearing and carry the dreaded stranger down to the river. There he could wade out into the middle of the stream, floating the stretcher and its cargo behind him, and then the ice-cold Himalayan waters would carry the nightmare away, off down to the great waterfall and on into India and beyond.
But the Abbot had specifically instructed them to care for this man. Against everything he had learned, he was to protect this white man, to save him if he could. And the lama shivered, and thought how much he wished the Abbot was with them now. If only the Abbot had heard the words himself . . .
9
The sun was long past its zenith by the time that Nancy Kelly arrived at the offices of the International Herald Tribune on Akhbar Street. The taxi had taken almost an hour to crawl around the rickshaws, cows, beggars and assorted broken-down vehicles that littered even Delhi’s most important roads. The first thing she had done when she got off the phone with Dan was call ahead to the office.
Waiting for the phone to connect, Nancy had stared out of the window,
‘Well, tell me anything. What words has he said? His name?’
The girl looked confused.
‘No, lama. Sometimes he says things in Tibetan. Words like the monks use at public prayers. Then he speaks sometimes in other languages, languages I have never heard before, and then sometimes in English. He is delirious. He is calling for people I think. He is in so much pain. But once, when we stopped by the waterfall, he smiled and looked at me as if he could see me. He was happy. He held my arm and then he kept saying one thing only, over and over again: Shangri-La. Shangri-La. Shangri-La . . .’
The monk felt his heart stop and then resume suddenly, with a massive thump and a terrible pain, as if someone had just pushed a blunt needle into it. Trying to regain his composure, he nodded and then, with a sickly look on his face, he said, ‘Listen to him. Nurse him. Try to encourage him to speak.’
‘Yes, lama. I will remain by his side at all times.’
She stood up to go and then stopped.
‘Lama . . . what does it mean, Shangri-La?’
‘Don’t worry yourself girl,’ said the old lama. ‘Just stay by his side and tell me everything he says.’
She curtsied and left. The rain drummed on the tarpaulin. Shangri-La. The lama knew all too well what the word meant. It was the name that the Westerners gave to Shambala, the secret kingdom of the Himalayas that was hidden in the valleys to the west. Only a handful of lamas preserved the ancient secret knowledge of the precipitous route; even the Abbot himself was forbidden to approach.
He stared down at the stranger, as he lay like a corpse on the stretcher on the other side of the clearing, and then the lama shut his eyes and prepared to meditate.
Phantoms appeared in his mind’s eye. Images of long-dead lamas came to him – great lamas who had taught him as a boy. He could hear conversations in his head, as if he was back there, all those years ago, sitting at their feet. Once, at Kailash monastery, a venerable old lama had told him that a terrible war had once been fought in the lands of the West, far beyond the Himalayas. It had seemed at the time that the whole world was on the point of going over to the dark side; that the sun was going to set for ever on the world. Some white men had come, seeking the kingdom of Shambala. They intended to go there and ask the King for help. The lamas had tried to aid them on their quest. It had been a terrible mistake. The lamas did not realize that the white men came from a different world, a world steeped in blood. They should not have trafficked with them. They should never have helped them. Such men brought only destruction.
The deputy thought of these things and tried to regulate his breathing, but every time he attempted to begin his meditation the word on the stranger’s lips came back to haunt him: Shangri-La.
A desperate urge came over him to get up and run across the clearing and carry the dreaded stranger down to the river. There he could wade out into the middle of the stream, floating the stretcher and its cargo behind him, and then the ice-cold Himalayan waters would carry the nightmare away, off down to the great waterfall and on into India and beyond.
But the Abbot had specifically instructed them to care for this man. Against everything he had learned, he was to protect this white man, to save him if he could. And the lama shivered, and thought how much he wished the Abbot was with them now. If only the Abbot had heard the words himself . . .
9
The sun was long past its zenith by the time that Nancy Kelly arrived at the offices of the International Herald Tribune on Akhbar Street. The taxi had taken almost an hour to crawl around the rickshaws, cows, beggars and assorted broken-down vehicles that littered even Delhi’s most important roads. The first thing she had done when she got off the phone with Dan was call ahead to the office.
Waiting for the phone to connect, Nancy had stared out of the window,
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