Tulku

by Peter Dickinson

  They would have had to make a move in any case, because the horses by now had eaten almost all the thin grass of the clearing, but the episode with the bear decided them. In the new camp Lung devised an ingenious arrangement of ropes that allowed him to haul all the baggage out of reach of bears, up among the branches. He astonished Theodore by his knack of doing this sort of thing, and the neatness of the fish-traps he wove, and his general practicality, though he pretended to despise the work.

  ‘A scholar does not do these things,’ he said, weaving a length of split reed between the ribs of his latest trap.

  ‘My father said we must worship God with our hands as well as our minds,’ said Theodore. ‘You ought to have seen the bridge he made.’

  ‘Good,’ said Lung. ‘Then I am worshipping the Princess with my hands.’

  He tied the reed’s end in with mocking precision, as though he were making a true-love knot.

  Theodore laughed aloud, though a month ago the joke would have appalled him. But now all that part of him seemed dead. Of course he said his prayers morning and evening and read a little from his Bible each day, as he had always done; but this was mere habit and he knew it needed only one more violent event to break it. It was as though deep inside him was a chapel which had once been lit and gleaming, loud with hymns or full of silent prayer; now it was shut, its air never changed, its ornaments gathered dust and mildew.

  * * *

  A few mornings later Theodore was lying on his stomach, drawing Sir Nigel once more. It had started as a practice study on the blank part of one of Mrs Jones’s rejected lily-drawings; but of course, being only practice, it was going particularly well, with eye and mind and hand and pencil forming a smooth-linked system so that what appeared on the paper was not only a real horse, living and solid, but was this particular horse, with its own striking combination of dash and dignity.

  ‘Hullo,’ said Mrs Jones, ‘here comes my admirer. What’s brought him back so soon?’

  Theodore looked up and saw Lung walking towards them, carrying something slung on a stick over his shoulder. He smiled, lifted down his burden and laid it at her feet like an offering. It was a fish, more than twice the size of any he had so far trapped, blue-black above and brown below.

  ‘My, that’s a beauty!’ said Mrs Jones. ‘Three good meals on there – at this rate we could stay here all summer, and I wouldn’t mind hanging around till my lilies have seeded.’

  Lung settled on to the grass and watched her manipulating her flower-press. For a while Theodore went on drawing, but gradually became aware of a change in the atmosphere, a sense of stifled energies beginning to fill the glade. He looked carefully up and saw that Lung was watching Mrs Jones out of the corner of his eyes while his hand stroked the sleek side of his fish, and she was merely twiddling and then untwiddling the brass butterfly-nut at the corner of her press. It had happened sometimes before, but they had always been extremely strict with themselves; perhaps, without telling him, they had agreed rules, but if so it had been for his sake. He had seldom seen them even touch, and when talking to each other in his presence they maintained a slightly teasing relationship, as though their love was not really serious and he needn’t worry about it. But he was often aware of it, a deep, intense, unspoken shared emotion, more like hunger than anything he could understand as love. Being with them in this mood was like living too near some source of power – a furnace, perhaps, the by-product of whose energies is enough to make one want to move to somewhere cooler.

  ‘Shall I go and look at the old traps,’ he said. ‘If that one’s going to last three meals we don’t want to catch anything we can’t eat.’

  ‘I think that would be a very good idea,’ said Mrs Jones in her drawing-room voice.

  Theodore folded his picture and tucked it into the breast-pocket of his jacket. He rose and walked away without looking back.

  Normally it took about ten minutes to walk to the coomb where they had first camped, but Mrs Jones had made a rule that for regular journeys like this they must always try to use a different path, so Theodore decided this time he would stay right down by the lake shore, which would delay him because the undergrowth was thicker here. He slowed himself still further by walking with a hunter’s silence. There was no real difference between deliberately going a slow way and going a quick way and then hanging around for a while, but there seemed to be. He was angry about the interruption of his drawing when it was going well, and the stealing of his share of the day, and he was ashamed of himself for being angry.

  About a hundred yards short of the coomb he ducked below a branch that hung right out over the lake and saw that something was disturbing the water near where the little stream ran out – close by Lung’s fish-traps, he thought. He couldn’t actually see the shore at that point, but after watching for a moment he became almost certain that something was actually meddling with one of the traps. The bear, perhaps. He wasn’t at all anxious to meet the creature at close quarters, but he would be glad to see it at a distance, so now he struck up away from the shore, aiming for a point about half way up the coomb; the lakeside undergrowth thinned, and he was able to move quite quickly between the trees until he came out behind one of the ranked drifts of lilies and could gaze down from tree-shadow into the bright-lit arena beyond.

  Down by the stream, a few yards up from the shore, a man was making urgent gestures. Near the head of the coomb another man was kneeling by a rectangle of paler grass where Mrs Jones’s tent had been pitched. This second man looked up, saw the gestures and came hurrying down to meet his comrade. Together they went to the lakeside and pulled out one of the fish-traps. Even from where he watched Theodore could see the sudden agonized writhings of a fish brought into the air. The men looked at it for a moment, then slid the trap back into the water and backed away, stooping as they did so to erase their foot-prints in the water-logged earth.

  They came slowly up the coomb, pointing at things that caught their attention – the interlocking rings of shorter grass where the tethered horses had grazed, a pile of old horse-droppings, the patch by the stream where Lung had usually washed the dishes. They darted eagerly up the far slope and stared at a point among the lilies, inexplicably as far as Theodore could see, until one of them fell to his knees and began to dig with his bare hands; then he remembered that Mrs Jones had dug one of her precious lily-bulbs from there. What were they after? Treasure?

  The standing man began to argue. He snatched at his companion’s shoulder, dragging him to his feet. They came back down to the stream, still arguing in low voices. They were small men, wearing what looked like rags which were held in place by a tracery of criss-crossing thongs; plaits of coarse black hair stuck out all round their heads under small grey fur caps with tight-rolled brims. They were Lolo, that was certain. Then one of the men in the frenzy of argument pushed his face to within an inch of the other man’s nose. He held his head poking forward on his neck and cocked a little to one side – an extraordinary posture which made it look as though his spine were double jointed. Theodore had seen a man do that only once before, in an argument over who should carry which burden when the porters were loading up in the Lolo village before the ambush. This was that man.

  Theodore stayed perfectly still, his muscles locked by the ancient instinct of the hunted, while the men finished their argument and peered hither and thither, eager but scared, into the lily-glowing darkness beneath the trees. He began to feel that at any moment the wide, snub noses would pick up his scent, but at last the men started back up the coomb and disappeared under the trees. He felt certain that they were going to find their comrades and report what they had seen.

  It seemed important to him to know whether the enemy were behind or in front, so, using known tracks, he followed the men up through the wood, keeping them right at the limit of his vision. They never looked round but the moment they reached the track they started eastwards up it at a quick, effortless jog. He held his breath until they disappeared a
nd then, still careful to leave no traces, made his way down to the camp.

  Normally when he came unexpectedly into the glade he would have coughed, or hummed a few lines of one of Mrs Jones’s songs. It was like knocking at a door. But this time he didn’t dare make even that amount of human noise, so he caught the lovers unprepared. Lung was lying on his back with his head in Mrs Jones’s lap. She had let her hair down and was bending over him, gently stroking his head with one hand. He held the other clasped against his chest.

  Theodore paused in his approach. Despite the urgency and fear he found it hard to break the weightless bubble of their happiness. He saw for the first time how streaked with grey was Mrs Jones’s hair.

  ‘Pardon me,’ he whispered.

  They looked up. Mrs Jones stared for a moment through the curtain of her hair, then tossed it back.

  ‘What’s up, Theo?’ she said in a low voice.

  He crouched in front of her and in a straining whisper told what he had seen. She nodded, accepting without question that he was sure that he recognized one of the men.

  ‘That’s rough,’ she said. ‘The others can’t be far off, neither, or they’d have spent more time scouting. First thing, we got to get out into the open – up by this bridge of yours might be favourite, then if things go sour we can try and cross it and cut the rope behind us. Before it comes to that we’ll try and parley with them, buy them off for a blood-price. But we haven’t a hope if they catch us down among the trees . . . oh, it’s all my fault for saying we could hang on here for ever! Lung, my love, you better get up. I’m afraid our prettytimes are over.’

  8

  IT TOOK AN agonizing time to strike camp, far longer than when they had been on the march. During the days in the valley they had unpacked more, settled in, grown used to the notion of staying. The horses, too, were out of the habit, troublesome with idleness and perhaps infected with the sudden renewal of tension. Mrs Jones decided to give them an extra feed while they were being loaded.

  ‘Help keep ’em still,’ she said. ‘And there’s no telling when we’ll next get a chance for a halt. We’ll ride, soon as we’re on the path.’

  ‘The hoof-prints will show,’ said Theodore.

  ‘Yes, but if these blokes got any sense they’ll split up, send one lot on ahead and leave the other to hunt through the wood. Last thing we want is to get ourselves cut off while we’re making our way up by rabbit-tracks. Cut a couple of switches, Theo, case you want to make the ponies hurry. You better have the shot-gun, Lung. This is the safety catch, see . . .’

  They were ready at last, and led the ponies sidelong up through the wood, striking the path a few hundred yards above the camp-site which the yak-drivers used. Theodore scrambled up on to Bessie’s rump, and she accepted him placidly, just as if he were another piece of baggage. He led the way. Next came Lung, sitting sideways behind Rollo’s pair of baskets, with the shot-gun slung across his back and looking every inch the soldier-poet; last of all Mrs Jones, riding Sir Nigel and leading Albert. They rode steadily down to the lake shore and started up the further slope. The sense of panic flight dwindled, though the urgency remained. Theodore began to make calculations. Say two hours to the bridge – that would be early afternoon. One person with a gun could hold the cliff path, at least while it was daylight, so there would be four hours to cross the bridge. They must start preparing to cross at once, because the path couldn’t be held in the dark, and Mrs Jones would have to be able to see across the gorge to protect Lung with the rifle while he crossed. He would have been holding the path with the shot-gun while she crossed . . . Crossing – you’d have to have a rope round your waist with a loop over the bridge rope . . .

  A whooping cry rang through the trees. Theodore looked over his shoulder and saw Albert, loose, walking uncertainly up the path. Beyond him Sir Nigel stood still, with Mrs Jones twisted in the saddle, her gun raised and aiming. And beyond her was movement, barely fifty yards away, men, running. Her gun cracked twice. Albert gave a scream of terror and came bolting up the track, almost knocking Lung off Rollo’s back where the wide-hung baskets crashed against each other. Theodore tried to nudge Bessie across the path but only succeeded in making her pull to one side and open the way for Albert to come tearing through. The gun cracked again just as Theodore brought his switch down hard across Bessie’s haunches. She squealed, more with fright and the infection of Albert’s bolting than with pain. Another shot, louder and deeper, rang out, and something tore through the leafage overhead.

  Theodore gave a gulp of fright – he had never thought that the attackers might have a gun – and lashed violently at Bessie’s haunches. There was no need, for by now she was bolting too, wallowing up the path in a bucketing canter, and his saddle – nothing more than a pad of blanket – was slithering away. He clutched at the basket-harness and dragged himself forward till he lay spread-eagled along the hollow of her back with his legs dangling behind the baskets and his arms in front, while Bessie steamed uncontrollably up through the wood. The breath was jolted from his lungs. Tree trunks flickered past. All ideas left his mind.

  Slowly the slope took its toll. Bessie’s pace eased as her breath came in slower and louder snorts and he was able to raise his head and peer forward. There was no sign of Albert, but his hoof-prints showed that he had stuck to the path this far at least. Theodore stayed where he was until Bessie slowed to a gasping walk, then he slid to the ground and led her for a while. Another shot echoed through the wood, but far off now, at least half a mile, he thought. No point in waiting. The first thing was for him to get to the bridge and set about making arrangements to cross.

  He found Albert about ten minutes later. He had evidently tried to leave the path at a point where its slope became much sharper but had almost at once caught his reins on a broken branch and been too stupid to back off and release them. He was half-exhausted with his fresh bout of panic at being thus trapped, and by the time Theodore had him back on the track he was apparently ready to do what he was told. Theodore tied Bessie’s reins to Albert’s basket-harness and led the pair of them on up the track.

  His instinct was to run, but he schooled himself to a steady walk. The bridge filled his mind, so that he could feel in his imagination the weight of his own body trying to tear the rope from his tiring grip. It was no use getting to the bridge exhausted . . . he began to think about hauling the baggage over . . . a length of cord the full width of the gorge . . . no, twice that, so that it could be hauled back again to take the next load, otherwise he’d have to cross and re-cross every time . . . there wasn’t nearly enough. Not enough even for one width, perhaps. Reins, and tent ropes . . . And the tents could be cut into strips and tied . . . it would take hours!

  Where the trees ended with the typical abruptness of mountain scenery, the path zigzagged up a couple of hundred feet and then eased to a far gentler angle as it slanted up towards the narrows of the gorge. Here he rode Bessie again, letting her pick her way along but keeping her moving at a fast walk. All three ponies had turned out to be sure-footed, and Albert’s temper even improved a little when he had a plummeting drop below him, so they crept with agonizing slowness across the great bare sweep. For a long while there was no sign or sound from the wood, and Theodore was almost two thirds of the way across when a figure emerged from the trees – Lung, still on horseback.

  Theodore waved, waited for Lung’s answering gesture and decided that it was encouraging, so rode on. The last he saw as he dismounted for the final slope up to the cliff ledge was Lung halted about a hundred yards from the trees and Mrs Jones coming trotting out into the open. He sighed with relief and led the horses into the gorge.

  Albert was fidgety again, troubled by the erratic gusts of wind and the ceaseless rumble of the river. His reaction to height was to walk on the extreme outer edge of the ledge, as though he were more frightened of the cliff above falling on him than of himself tumbling into the gorge. Theodore’s palms were sweaty once more with the prospect of th
e coming climb. He would tie the horses, then make himself a waist-loop, and then set about manufacturing the travelling rope. He kept his eyes on the path, gathering his moral energies for the next effort. Not far now. There was the clump of pink daisies which Lung had picked from to show Mrs Jones. Round this next buttress of rock he would see the bridge . . .

  It was still there, but the curve of it was clean no more. It was swaying, and a loop of cord dangled below. There were men on the far platform, watching . . . A few more paces and he saw that the rope dipped to a heavy bundle which hung from a yoke-shaped wooden runner, made to slide along the top of the rope. And there were four men on the near platform, too, hauling at another rope to drag the bundle over. These were Tibetans, like the yak-drivers, wearing fur caps and knee-length loose coats tied at the waist with a great sash. None of them paid any attention as Theodore led his horses on to the platform.

  He hesitated a moment, then crossed and spoke to the hindmost man, slowly and clearly in Mandarin.

  ‘Can you help us please? We are being attacked by bandits and must cross the river.’

  The man looked at him, one quick stare, and returned to the rhythm of hauling. Theodore tried Miao, and then assembled his smattering of Cantonese into a sort of sentence. The man didn’t even glance at him now. In desperation he tried English, but the man only grunted, and that might have been because of the extra effort of dragging the load up the last steep section of curve. He and his neighbour took the strain as soon as the bundle was over the platform, while the other two unlashed it and lowered it to the ground.

  The moment the weight was off, Theodore stepped forward and put his hand on the rope, as if laying claim to it. The men stared furiously at him. One of them spoke in Tibetan, and the nearest man snatched Theodore’s arm off the rope, gripped him by the shoulder and flung him back against the rock wall. Somebody hallooed to the party on the far platform, and by the time Theodore got to his feet the wooden traveller was already sliding back along the rope. A man led the horses up to him and made signs that he was to hold them and stand clear; this man’s face was a dark scowl of anger and disapproval, and he finished his gestures by patting the large dagger in his sash several times.