by Tom Martin
‘With a firm but gentle tug, he pulled the thread. For a second, it brought to my mind an image of a bell-ringer in the wooden village church near to my parents’ house in the Pampas. I did not know what to say and the Chinese man’s eyes were closed in concentration.
‘Then to my amazement, I noticed a loop of thread appear above his hand. Someone, or something, high in the heavens above, was reeling out the silken line. In stunned silence, I watched as spool after spool of semi-visible thread coiled on the ground around our feet. On and on it came until the ground around our feet was covered in a spider’s web of this gossamer-like thread. Then, after some four or five minutes of this, the silk thread turned into a silk rope. The lama nodded his head and let the rope descend until it had created a couple of loops on the ground and then he tugged the line twice and suddenly all motion stopped. The silk rope hung in the air.
‘ “Please, raise your arms,” said the Chinese man.
‘I watched as he wound the rope under my armpits and tied it behind my back.
‘ “Is it strong enough?’ I said in genuine fear, for the rope was really quite thin-looking and it was hard to imagine how it would ever be able to support my weight.
‘ “Yes.”
‘Then without another word he reached up and tugged hard twice on the rope above my head and within a second I felt a jerking motion as the rope tightened under my arms. My feet were lifted off the ground. Within ten seconds, the Chinese man had been reduced to the size of a small doll. I saw him turn and get back into the trap. Then I could hardly see him any more. I was being drawn ever higher. Beneath me I could see the entire valley, and suddenly to my horror I remembered what Gustav had said about how he had a vague recollection of staring longingly over the parapets of Shangri-La and how he had dreamed of flying down to the Emerald Valley below. But it was too late to do anything now.
‘Up and up I was carried, like a spider ascending a thread, through veils of mist and cloud, passing sometimes perilously close to the cliff-face and then sometimes floating in the thin air, ten feet away from it. Finally, after what I estimated to be about six minutes or more of this, I could at last see an end to my flight. Above me, the rope passed over a wheel on the end of a wooden arm that extended from the edge of the cliff. I was barely twenty feet away and rising fast. The adrenalin surged through my veins; who would be there waiting to greet me?
‘And then suddenly I was at the top of the cliff, staring at a great stone battlement, and then to my everlasting horror I saw that on top of every battlement, mounted on successive spikes, was a decaying human head. I screamed in terror and kicked my legs, trying to swim backwards through the air. It was absurd and futile, an expression of simple bodily fear. For a second I swung in mid-air, like a helpless fly, caught in a web. I could see beyond the battlements to an area of rugged ground, and then beyond that were the black walls of a lamasery, a dark tower rising at the heart.
‘Suddenly, I was not alone. An oriental man in his mid-fifties appeared to me, a man dressed in silk robes of the nineteenth century. He reached out his hand and leaned towards me and said in heavily accented, broken English, ‘“Welcome to Shangri-La. Lamas are expecting you. Please take hand.”
‘I didn’t really have any choice, despite my pounding heart, so I did as he suggested and clasped his hand. Then I was standing on the firm ground of the battlement walkway. The man had noticed that my face was ghostly white and that I was still staring in terror at the human heads. He waved his hand through the air. His English was awkward and jerky but perfectly comprehensible.
‘ “Apologies for frightening figures. Necessary to scare unwanted visitors. Room prepared for you in tower. Trust you find comfortable.”
‘I decided my best course of action was to try to project a sense of purpose and determination. His explanation of the disgusting display of heads was hardly adequate; human scarecrows they may have been, but the question remained of who the heads had belonged to, how the victims had come to be thus mutilated.
‘“I would like to speak immediately with the Abbot of this place,” I said.
‘The oriental man did not smile.
‘“Come to tower. Lamas receive you there.”
‘He gestured at me to descend a flight of stone stairs. I could see they led down to the rocky area between the battlements and the lamasery. I was helpless, standing with the beheaded warnings to one side, the unfathomable drop to the other, and so I acceded to his request. I noticed as I stepped past him that he carried a sword which I assumed was not for ornamental purposes alone.
‘Together we walked over the bare earth to the lamasery gates, where he banged hard with his fist on the doors. The doors swung open, revealing a gloomy courtyard. The doorkeeper was a stocky sherpa; apart from him the courtyard was entirely empty. I followed my now silent guide across the courtyard, through an arched doorway, down several stone corridors, across several inner courtyards and finally, into the base of the great tower itself. A wide flight of steps arched majestically around the interior of the tower, with landings and doorways coming off at intervals. We ascended the stone stairs until we had almost reached the top, at which point he opened a door and gestured for me to go in.
‘“Please. Wash. Rest.”
‘What choice did I have? None. Even if I had forced my way past him, where would I have run too? To the battlements? There was no way I could have descended the silk rope alone, even assuming that no one tampered with it as I went down. And as for trying to escape beyond the lamasery, over the high Himalayas, well, that would be effectively suicidal. I could not imagine I would last more than a couple of days without the correct clothing and supplies.
‘I took a deep breath and ducked under the doorway and found myself in a small cell-like room. I was just about to turn and ask when I might be granted an audience with the Abbot when I heard the door slam shut behind me and a key turn in the lock. I spun around but was too late. All I could hear were footsteps receding down the stairs. Shaking my head at my folly, I turned to survey the room more thoroughly. There was a bed, a chair, a table, a bowl and a jug filled with water, a window; I ran to it. It had a grille on it of wrought iron. I pressed my face to the grille and peered down into the lamasery. The window was even higher up than I had realized; I had a commanding view of the rooftops and the courtyard directly below. It was not the front courtyard I looked onto but an interior courtyard; an inner sanctum.
‘As I pressed my cheeks to the grille, I saw something that made my blood run as cold as the meltwater that drips from the Himalayan glaciers. A group of sherpas were hard at work, carrying bundles of wood and placing them at the base of a huge bonfire. And on top of the massive pile of logs and kindling sat the most frightening object I have ever seen: a human-sized wooden cage.
‘It was quite obvious that they could only have been at work at this task for about half an hour, which by my estimation was almost exactly the amount of time since my Chinese friend from the valley below first tugged on the dreadful string. With a horrible and complete sense of realization I began to cry out in terror. I think I produced some pathetic and impotent words – “No! Dear God no!” – but most of the time I was moaning in fear, whimpering like an animal.’
The Abbot’s deputy recoiled in horror. Never before had he heard such a ghastly tale. Could it really be true that such a place existed? Sweat was pouring down the stranger’s pale, cadaverous face as he recounted his nightmarish experience – it was real enough to him and his dazzling blue eyes were wide with fear.
37
As they came out of the market and into the main square, Nancy became aware that she was slightly drunk. Two beers and 12,000 feet didn’t mix as well as Jack Adams had claimed. She was swaying unsteadily on her feet and the edges of the buildings seemed to be unnaturally sharp against the azure sky.
‘Shouldn’t we wait until Gunn comes back? We want to be able to leave as soon as he returns, don’t we?’
‘Don’t wo
rry,’ said Jack. ‘He’s just over there, in the Migu tea house. And don’t mention what we’ve just been talking about to him – he wouldn’t appreciate my speculations about Tibetan Buddhism.’
Jack strode ahead through the busy market alleyway and into the square. Nancy was following slowly behind when suddenly and despite her state of intoxication she sensed danger. Just a few yards away a red-faced young Tibetan was advancing towards her.
‘American, go home to your country.’
She pretended not to hear. She half-turned away from him but she could see out of the corner of her eye that he was approaching. Furiously he shouted, ‘The Dalai Lama is a wicked donkey.’
She began to walk away but the young man only increased his speed. His English was good – he was clearly educated. ‘Tibet is free already – we don’t want monks making us work. We don’t want foreigners bringing back the Dalai Lama. Tibet is free today.’
Suddenly, the man was right behind her. She felt his hands on her shoulders and before she could react, he had spun her around and had grabbed her by the collar of her shirt. She could smell alcohol on his breath and she could feel the strength of his hands. His eyes were burning with rage.
‘Why do you come to Lhasa to visit old monasteries? Why?’
She tried to answer – her voice filled with panic.
‘I haven’t – I haven’t actually been to any monasteries . . .’
He leaned his face closer to hers. She tried to recoil from him but he dragged her forward, baring his teeth at her as if he was about to bite her.
‘Monasteries are evil. They oppress us. The Dalai Lama is a dictator. Now we have democracy – all people are equal. Americans should stay in America, not try to bring dictators back to power in Tibet.’
The man looked as if he was about to burst into tears. At that moment both Jack and Gunn arrived at her side. Gunn took firm but gentle hold of the young man’s arms and spoke quietly to him in Tibetan. Jack stood by poised to act, but waited to see what effect Gunn’s words might have. Gradually, the Tibetan man released his grip on Nancy – all the while Gunn was murmuring to him.
As the boy’s arms fell to his side, Gunn put his arm around him and guided him back to his place on the steps. Nancy breathed again. It had been a terrifying few seconds. Gunn returned a moment later shaking his head. His face was very sad.
‘It is bad. More and more young people are confused like this. At school they get taught that Tibetan culture is just a cover for clerical-aristocratic exploitation. The Chinese fill their heads with communist propaganda and they believe it – but as they grow up they know in their hearts that it’s not true – it’s not right to throw away your past. So, they become confused and unhappy – the unresolved tensions are too much – and on top of everything else, there are no jobs, so they drink and smoke and argue . . .’
‘I thought Lhasa was booming,’ said Nancy, trying to be relaxed about the experience. ‘I thought the new Sky Train from Beijing was bringing jobs and prosperity.’
‘It is, but not for Tibetans. To get a proper job you have to speak and write Chinese. More than eighty per cent of Tibetans are illiterate and very few speak Chinese. You have seen all the young men loitering around Lhasa in the tea houses, playing snooker and drinking tea and chang – that’s a Tibetan spirit . . . It’s very sad. But at least most of them are still patriotic. That boy is a particularly tragic case – he does not even have pride in Tibet . . .’
Nancy stared over her shoulder at the steps. The young man sat, with his head slumped between his knees, as if the world was too much for him, as if life had finally worn him right down.
‘But what will happen to these young people? Will they get jobs? Will they be all right?’
Gunn sighed bitterly.
‘No. There are no jobs for angry young men who don’t want to learn Chinese. We are second-class citizens in our own land. It is too late for Tibet. We are outnumbered in our own country. I do not know what we can do . . .’
‘But do people still dream of freedom – of freedom from the Chinese and for the Dalai Lama to return home?’
‘No. No one I know still dreams like that.’
He paused and gazed at the golden stupas of the far-off Potala Palace.
‘Maybe it is our karma. I have heard some monks say that the Chinese invaded Tibet because Tibetans needed to be punished – we had strayed too far from Buddhism, we had become corrupt, the lamas had become greedy. We brought it on our own heads. And some people say that it is all part of the divine plan. By invading Tibet and destroying our homeland, the Chinese have forced us to flee, and by doing so we are bringing the light of Buddhism to the whole world . . .’
Jack Adams had been listening with an irritable expression, and now he interrupted forcibly. ‘Listen – you know what this kind of crazy talk reminds me of? It reminds me of those Jews who say that the Holocaust was a necessary evil. That they were murdered because they had strayed too far from the Law of the Torah and that the Nazis were just performing God’s work and that Jews were scattered from their homes in eastern Europe so that the Promised Land could be reborn in Israel . . . I don’t go in for these arguments that require mass murder and destruction for the successful working out of God’s law, or karma or whatever you want to call it . . .’
Gunn looked at the two foreigners and smiled weakly.
‘Well, you can’t blame us for trying to find a reason for the destruction of our soul that has happened since 1959 . . . A reason we can bear to contemplate. The world looks very depressing otherwise . . .’
He shrugged his shoulders. Jack slapped him on the shoulder.
‘Tibet isn’t history yet, Gunn. Not by a long way. Come on, let’s get a cab.’
38
Colonel Jen paused for a moment and wiped his brow for the hundredth time that hour. An unstoppable flow of sweat and rainwater was coursing down his face, stinging his eyes. Next to him stood Dorgen Trungpa, dressed only in his soaking orange robes, still showing no visible signs of exhaustion. Behind them in the forest were the soldiers, scattered in a line, a line that seemed to be getting longer by the minute as some of the men, wearied by the pace and severity of the climb, started to fall behind. None of the soldiers was jungle-trained, most were not even country boys, they were from big cities like Chengdu and Chonqing. They were raw recruits, out of place in the jungle; unfit, scared and unable to read any of the signs of the forest.
A macaw let out its distinctive piercing wailing cry just above the Colonel’s head, making him flinch.
‘Are we still on course?’ he whispered to Dorgen Trungpa. The monk had been silent ever since they had left the monastery compound and begun to thread their way through the dense jungle foliage. Colonel Jen studied the monk’s impassive face – perhaps the boy had changed his mind? Perhaps he had decided not to take them to the Caves but to lead them on a wild goose chase. Colonel Jen still had the map, but the monk had promised to help, promised to show them the best route.
‘I feel . . .’ Trungpa was whispering hoarsely, ‘. . . I fear that something is wrong.’
Colonel Jen felt his throat tighten. He had not properly accounted for the jungle. The terrain was far worse than he had feared, and even the monks, who knew it intimately, seemed to be scared of venturing too far from Litang gompa.
‘What’s the problem?’
Dorgen Trungpa simply put his finger to his lips and frowned. Ever since Colonel Jen had informed him of his intention to follow the lamas into the jungle, the young monk had been muttering darkly about the guardians of the forest. He refused to be drawn as to what he meant by the phrase, but a shadow crossed his face whenever he spoke of them.
A hush seemed to have descended on the forest. Very slowly, Colonel Jen began to turn around, his eyes searching desperately, trying to make out anything unusual in the endless sea of greenery. He could not dismiss the feeling that there was something out there stalking them, closing in on them. He took his rifle off h
is shoulder and quickly raised it above his head, gesturing to the man behind him to do the same. The message was passed down the line of soldiers. Noisily they readied their weapons and adopted firing positions. Colonel Jen could see some of their faces – the looks of grim fatigue that they had been wearing only moments earlier had now been replaced by fear and apprehension. Suddenly there was a swishing sound, as if wind was rising through the forest canopy. Then a soldier a few yards back down the track dropped his weapon and cried out in terror:
‘A migu! It’s a migu!’
The men panicked: they stepped off the path, cowering into the undergrowth, undisciplined in their terror. Jen was shouting at them to hold their positions when he saw Dorgen Trungpa wince in pain. The monk’s eyes bulged wide and his slender hand suddenly reached up to touch his neck. Then he stumbled forward. Colonel Jen dropped his rifle and grabbed the monk as he collapsed; his eyeballs were hidden under half-closed lids, his neck lolled crazily to the side. Then everything became a blur. Colonel Jen just had time to see a small feathered dart protruding from the monk’s neck, and then he felt something fly past his right ear, missing him by a hair’s breadth. And then a second later he felt something brushing his chin. Blow darts. He dived onto the ground and rolled away from the body of the fallen monk. Gunfire opened up all around as the soldiers emptied magazines into the dense jungle. Colonel Jen sprang to his feet only to see something, someone, a ferocious savage face, coming at him, a stone axe raised aloft.
Without thinking, Colonel Jen lunged forward and hit his assailant square in the chest, sending him flying into the undergrowth. Regaining his balance, Colonel Jen glanced back to the path; his men were being butchered left and right, running in confusion, and on all sides were semi-naked figures, wielding lethal Stone Age weapons. Nets fell from above, traps were sprung as the terrified soldiers crashed around in the undergrowth, branches laden with poison-tipped spikes swung towards the hapless men. The battle was already lost. Ten yards away a terrifying figure, dressed in animal skins and wearing a hideous mask, had seen Colonel Jen. The beast-man unleashed a hideous cry and began to charge. Colonel Jen felt as if the whole forest was turning on him, as if every evil thing in Pemako had been ordered to hunt him down. He dived into the foliage and began clawing his way through the undergrowth like a wild animal.
