The Ninth Buddha

by Daniel Easterman

  “We’re going nowhere near the door,” he said.

  “Over there,” he ordered, waving the gun in the direction of the living-room.

  “Your friend as well. Tell him to move or I’ll blow your head off.”

  The man knew better than to argue. With his colleague, he made for the living-room door.

  “Open it and go inside.”

  They did as ordered. Inside the room, the trio of women were still sipping morning tea and nibbling at caraway cake. This time the governess dropped her cup and saucer on to the floor. The be gum looked up from her plate, saw what was happening, and gave Christopher a look that was probably the nearest thing to a death sentence in Hasanabad. Moira Carpenter looked like the antithesis of Christian charity reluctantly made flesh. No-one said a word.

  Christopher stepped inside only long enough to remove the key from the lock. He closed the door again and locked it, putting the key into his trouser pocket. He wondered if they had had time to warn Carpenter.

  Upstairs, he visited each of the rooms in turn. All were cold and empty. Somewhere, a door slammed. There was a brief flutter of voices in the distance, then silence again. At the end of the ‘ corridor, a flight of narrow stairs led up to an attic storey.

  Christopher remembered it had been in the attic that Tsewong had hanged himself.

  The stairs led directly to a plain wooden door. Christopher climbed slowly, waiting on each step, his feet patient, his ears straining for a sound. His heart was beating rapidly. He thought , he could hear voices beyond the door, but the sound faded and he could not be sure he had heard anything at all. And yet he ‘ imagined that, beneath the silence, there was something else.

  There was nothing behind the door but a narrow, wood-panelled passageway, a dark tunnel lit by a single bulb. At the end of the passageway was a second door, identical to the first. He advanced cautiously, feeling cramped by the dark walls on either side A floorboard cracked and he stood still for what seemed an age.

  A sound of scraping came from behind the door, a steady,

  rhythmic sound, muffled and indefinable. Scrape-scrape. Then a brief pause. Scrape-scrape. Another pause. Scrape-scrape. A pause.

  And so it went on.

  Christopher hesitated, listening, trying to work out what the sound could be.

  Scrape-scrape. Pause. Scrape-scrape.

  Set into the door at eye height was a small shutter with a knob, about six inches long by three high. It reminded Christopher of the shutters on prison doors. He thought perhaps the room must be the girls’ sick bay, a place where fevers could be isolated or heartaches given room to heal. The monk Tsewong would have been kept here.

  Scrape-scrape. The noise came more loudly now.

  Christopher put his hand to the knob and drew back the shutter.

  Through a small glass pane, part of the room came into view. The walls and floor were powdered with light and dust. Through a ‘ I skylight of marbled glass, sunlight filtered, effortless and slow, into the tiny room. Christopher stepped closer to the glass and put his eye to the aperture.

  Immediately opposite, his back turned to Christopher, John

  Carpenter sat hunched over a low fire. In one hand, he held a long poker which he was dragging mechanically across the top of the grate. It was this that was making the scraping noise. The fire seemed old, a thing of cinders mostly, its few coals grey and smouldering. Here and there, flashes of red struggled for life in the ashes, but the weight of all that greyness about them was too great, and they fell deeper and deeper into oblivion. Carpenter moved the poker in and out of the ashes listlessly, raising from time to time a solitary spark that rose briefly above the cinders and was gone.

  But it was not Carpenter that drew Christopher’s eyes. Carpenter was peripheral, a side-show to what was happening in the centre of the room. Two people stood there, a man and a girl, a living tableau caught in the angry sunlight. The man was an Indian, but he wore a Savile Row suit and leaned on a silverheaded cane. He was a man of perhaps fifty, small and round and soft. He looked as though someone had taken him off and polished him like an old spoon in an antique shop, all gleaming and mellow and filled with curious reflections. His eyes were on the girl, watching her with a wild intensity that held him captive.

  The girl was naked. A white shift lay on the floor where she had discarded it. Long black hair fell across her shoulders and gently touched the edges of small, shadowed breasts. She was perhaps fifteen or sixteen. Her eyes were shut, as though she were trying to dream the room away, but Carpenter’s little nightmare was all about her, sweet and tight and inescapable.

  The man reached out a hand to touch her lightly, running soft fingers along her skin, sweeping them against the soft hairs of her forearms. Then he made her turn. Round and round he made her turn, like a dancer, like a tiny mechanical dancer spinning on top of a music-box, to the sound of an old melody. He made her raise her arms above her head and lower them again, watched her breasts rise and fall, admired the smooth line of her throat as she held her head back. There was no sound but the scraping of the poker in the grate. Finally, that too stopped and there was silence.

  The naked girl turned to music she alone could hear, lost in gardens of amazing symmetry, from which there was no escape.

  She was the dancer at the edge of the dance, alone and silently turning in a dream.

  Christopher opened the door. No-one noticed him enter. Carpenter was lost in contemplation of the embers in the fireplace, the Nawab’s attention was all on the girl, and the girl was in a trance.

  He stood for a long time watching them, waiting for their ritual to end. It was the Nawab who noticed him first, out of the corner of his eye. The little man turned, a look of incredible fury on his face.

  “I say! What do you mean bursting in here like this? Who the hell do you think you are? By Jove, I’ll have you flogged if you don’t leave at once!”

  The Nawab had been to Eton and Oxford, where he had studied how to be an Oriental gentleman. Eton had taught him English manners and Oxford how to row. He had taught himself how to treat anyone who was not a Nawab or a Viceroy.

  “I would like to speak to the Reverend Carpenter,” said Christopher.

  “The matter doesn’t concern you, so you can just get out.

  Before I throw you out.”

  “Do you know who you are speaking to? I can have you horsewhipped for this insolence!”

  “You aren’t in a position to argue,” Christopher snapped. He pointed the revolver at the Nawab.

  “And I don’t have time. I’ll shoot you if I have to. It’s entirely up to you.”

  The man spluttered and lifted his cane as if to strike Christopher, but he was not fool enough to do it. Still expostulating to himself, he made for the door. As he was leaving, he turned.

  “My chaps downstairs will put you in your place. You’ll be sorry you were ever born when they’re through with you. By God, I’ll see you’re sorry!”

  Christopher slammed the door in his face. He glanced at Carpenter, who had remained seated in front of the fire, then picked the girl’s shift from the floor. She was standing absolutely still, her eyes watching him, wondering what was going to happen next.

  “Put this on,” he said, holding it out to her.

  She took it from him, but remained holding it, as though uncertain what to do.

  “Put it on,” he repeated.

  She remained unmoving, so he took the shift and pulled it over her head, helping her slip her arms through the sleeves.

  “You have to leave,” he said.

  “Get away from here. You mustn’t stay here, do you understand?”

  She looked at him, uncomprehending. He had to make her understand.

  “You’ll only come to harm here,” he insisted.

  “You must go away.”

  As though he had not spoken, she began to turn, just as she had turned before, raising and lowering her arms. Christopher snatched at her and slapped her face
, trying to bring her to her senses. She looked at him as though nothing had happened.

  “Don’t you understand?” he shouted.

  “This is no place for you.

  You must leave!”

  “Leave?” she said. Her voice quavered.

  “Where can I go?” she asked.

  “This is my home. There is nowhere else to go. Nowhere.”

  “It doesn’t matter where you go,” he said.

  “Just as long as you get away from this place.”

  She looked at him with blank eyes.

  “It matters,” she said almost inaudibly.

  “Leave her, Wylam. She understands it all better than you ever will.” Carpenter had got up from his seat in front of the fire. He came across to the girl and put an arm round her shoulders. They walked together to the door, the missionary and his charge, while he talked to her in a low voice, inaudible to Christopher.

  Carpenter opened the door, said something further to the girl, and let her out. He watched her walk away down the narrow passage, then closed the door and turned to face Christopher.

  “Tell me, Mr. Wylam,” he said.

  “Do you believe in God?”

  The question seemed bizarre and out of place to Christopher.

  “I don’t see what God has got to do with this,” he said.

  “I told you before, I haven’t come here to discuss theology.”

  “Oh, but Mr. Wylam, don’t you see? It all goes back to theology in the end. It all goes back to God. How could it be otherwise? But if you are not yourself a believer, you may find it hard to understand.”

  “’mm not here to understand. I’m here to find my son. He was here in this orphanage. For all I know, he may still be here.”

  Carpenter went over to his seat by the fire and sat down. He looked tired and unhappy.

  “What makes you think he was here?” he asked.

  “I found his initials carved into the wall behind a chest in the sick bay. So let’s stop playing games. Martin Cormac was killed sometime this morning because he had information about you and your activities. Until something happens to convince me otherwise, I’m holding you responsible.”

  The look of shock on the missionary’s face seemed genuine enough.

  “Cormac? Dead? What do you mean? I know nothing about any killing.”

  Christopher explained. As he did so, the blood drained from , Carpenter’s face. The look of horror grew more pronounced.

  ‘ “I swear I know nothing whatever about this,” he stammered.

  “I

  swear it to you. I know about your son, yes. I know about the monk, Tsewong, yes. But this other thing, I swear I had no hand in it. You must believe me.”

  “Tell me about my son. Where is he?”

  Carpenter looked away.

  “He’s not here. You are right: he was. But he left a week ago.”

  “Who is he with? Where have they taken him?”

  “Mishig took him, the Mongol Agent They left for Tibet. I think he planned to travel over the Sebu-la.”

  “Where are they headed?”

  Carpenter shook his head. He looked directly at Christopher.

  “I don’t know,” he answered.

  “They’re going to Tibet: that’s all L know.”

  “Are they going to Dorje-la? Is that their destination?”

  The missionary seemed agitated. He shook his head vigorously.

  “I don’t know where you mean. I’ve never heard of a place called Dorje-la.”

  “You sent some of your children there. Never girls, just boys.

  The monk Tsewong came from there, didn’t he? He was sent here by the Dorje Lama.”

  Carpenter took a deep breath. He was shaking.

  “You know a great deal, Mr. Wylam. Who are you’ What do you want?

  What’s so important about your son?”

  “I thought you might tell me that.”

  “I only kept him here until they were ready for the journey.

  Mishig told me nothing. Tsewong told me nothing. You must believe me!”

  “Where is Dorje-la?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Who is the Dorje Lama?”

  “The abbot of Dorje-la! That’s all I know, I swear.”

  Christopher paused. Just what did Carpenter know? What was he prepared to do, who was he prepared to sell, for a little influence, a little funding?

  “And you know nothing about Martin Cormac’s death?”

  “Nothing! I swear.”

  “Did they pay you?”

  “Pay me?”

  “To keep William here. To hand him over to Mishig.”

  The missionary shook his head.

  “Not money. Promises. Promises of help. Listen, you must try to take the broader view. I have important work to do, the Lord’s work. There are souls to be saved. Do you understand that? They are going to hell, all these millions, with no Saviour to redeem them. I can rescue them, I can give them Paradise. Don’t you see?

  The Lord is using us: you, me, my orphans, your son. We’re all his tools. It’s mysterious, the way He works is mysterious. Unless you understand that, you will understand nothing. I do what I do for His sake, for the sake of His work.”

  Christopher reached out and grabbed hold of the man. He pulled him out of his chair to his feet.

  “You sell little girls for God? You sell boys to convert the

  heathen?”

  “You don’t understand .. . !”

  Christopher threw him back into the chair.

  “Have they harmed him? I pray God they haven’t harmed him.

  For your sake,” The Scotsman shook his head violently, protesting.

  “No! He’s safe, he’s well. I swear it! They haven’t harmed him.

  They won’t harm him. They want him for something. They want him safe.

  He’s important to them. Believe me, he’s safe.”

  Christopher could not bear to touch the man again. There was nothing he could say to him, nothing that would bring back Martin Cormac or draw William an inch nearer to him.

  “When you have your mission in Lhasa,” Christopher said, ‘remember what it cost. Think about it every day. Every time you hear the trumpets in the temples drowning your prayers. And ask yourself if it was worth it. Ask yourself if God is worth that much.”

  He opened the door and went out slowly. It closed behind him with a dull click.

  Carpenter looked at the remains of the fire: no phoenix, no bright feathers, no flurry of sudden wings just ashes crumbling into dust. He glanced up and caught sight of the hook in the ceiling. The sunlight lay on it like gold leaf. He still had the girdle that the monk had used: he had not given it to Cormac. It was in a drawer in the corner. The chair was just high enough to allow him to reach the hook.

  There was a policeman at the rest-house door. He looked as though he had always been there, a fixture, a solidity in the flux of the busy street. He wore the regulation blue uniform with a dark pugaree bearing his divisional badge. Huge moustaches sagged over and round a humourless mouth. He stood rigidly, like a tin soldier on parade. Christopher knew he was waiting for him. Waiting and planning a promotion based on his arrest. He carried a thick riot stick and looked as though he knew how to use it.

  Smoothly, Christopher slipped into the shadows on the side of the street. A buffalo cart screened him further from the eyes of the policeman. He became invisible. Until now, he thought, he had been stumbling about like a beginner. It was time he grew up again. Breathing deeply, he scanned the street rapidly in both directions. He had to leave Kalimpong now. But he had left his equipment and money in the rest-house, the latter well hidden beneath a floorboard.

  There was a back entrance. Slipping through a maze of stinking alleyways, he made his way unobserved to the small, rubbish choked courtyard at the rear of the house. As he expected, the police had forgotten to post anyone there. Cautiously, he tried the rickety door. It was unlocked. He sli
pped inside and found himself in a gloomy passage at the end of which a dusty shaft of sunlight beckoned. He closed the door gently; the stagnant air of the rest house began to fill his lungs. The smell of rancid butter permeated the place.

  The house was quiet, and he succeeded in making his way unchallenged to his room. The room itself was unguarded. He let himself in with the simple iron key.

  The man in the chair showed neither surprise nor welcome as Christopher entered. Christopher closed the door gently and put the key back in his pocket. He saw that the room had been given a thorough going-over again, but he did not think his visitor had been responsible. The man was dressed in the robes of a Tibetan monk, but he was clearly no ordinary trapa. His clothes, his bearing, his eyes, his lips all gave token of a man of some standing.

  His face was badly scarred by smallpox. He stared at Christopher without blinking.

  “Who are you?” Christopher asked.

  “What do you want?”

  The monk regarded Christopher with an intense scrutiny that went far beyond the merely curious. His gaze tore away skin and scar tissue, exploring living flesh.

  “I want nothing,” he said in a soft voice. His English was clear but stilted.

  “But you,” he went on, ‘are in quest of something. I wonder what it is you want.”

  “If you want nothing, what are you doing here?” asked Christopher. The monk’s gaze unnerved him. Being in the same room with him unnerved him.

  “To warn you,” said the monk, very quietly.

  “Warn me?”

  The gecko on the wall shifted in its search for shadows and concealment.

  “You have been asking questions. Indelicate questions. Improper questions. Questions that have no answers you can understand.

  You are holy, I cannot touch you. But already one man has died.

  I will carry his blood on my hands. Do you understand? Into the next world and beyond. You are holy for me, but others can harm you. I know you do not understand. It is better for you that you do not. But this is my advice: leave all thought of the lama who died here. Leave all thought of your son. Leave all thought of revenge. Go home. All other ways are closed. The gods are only playing now. Leave before they grow tired of games.”