Imperial Fire

by Lyndon, Robert

  She caught his sleeve as he turned. ‘No, tell me what that look meant.’

  Wayland stared at the ground. ‘You don’t need me to tell you.’

  ‘I want to hear it in your own words.’

  Wayland wrenched away. ‘I was thinking how lovely you are.’

  Yonden and a dozen other monks saw them off. ‘Promise you won’t allow your fascination with the temple to lure you into danger. Remember what I said about the land of Shambhala. By the time you realise you’ll never reach it, it’s too late to turn back.’

  ‘I promise,’ Wayland said. He heaved himself into the saddle. ‘I haven’t asked what life holds for you now.’

  The monks chanted blessings and spun hand-held prayer wheels. Yonden smiled. ‘Tomorrow I’ll be immured in a cell and won’t see another being for a year.’

  ‘I’ve seen you breathe in the scent of flowers and admire a shapely woman. You’ll go mad cut off from the world.’

  ‘I’ll have holy texts to study and the cell has a window facing east. Whenever I look through it, I’ll be with you in spirit.’

  Yonden’s last act was to drape white silk scarves around Wayland and Zuleyka’s necks. ‘Farewell, my friends. Buddha and all the good spirits go with you.’

  The monastery had provided them with fresh horses and three yaks, each with a handler. Horses couldn’t cross the pass into Mustang. Once they reached the final approach, the handlers would take them back to the monastery, together with two of the yaks.

  Fearful of bandit attack, the Tibetan escort sought safety in company, joining groups of traders and pilgrims travelling the highway to Lhasa. An uneventful journey brought them to the trail leading to Mustang, and then they struck off the beaten track, heading south into wild and uninhabited country.

  Two days later they came upon a solitary shrine by the faint impression of a track leading into the mountains.

  ‘It’s the way to the temple,’ one of the Tibetans said.

  Wayland looked up into a cauldron of boiling clouds that swirled apart to reveal glimpses of glaciers, tumbled ice-falls and knife-edged buttresses. Thunder rolled and lightning clawed between summits. It was like staring into an aerial abyss inhabited by warring gods and titans.

  ‘Christ,’ Wayland breathed. ‘I’m not going up there.’ He turned to the leader of the escort. ‘We’ll take the Mustang trail.’

  Returning towards the highway, they spotted a terminal of smoke rising from nowhere and made a wide detour before pitching camp on a desolate tableland. Wayland fed Freya a full crop.

  ‘Tomorrow I’ll release her,’ he told Zuleyka.

  The dog’s growls woke him late in the night. He untied the entrance to his tent and looked out. The moon drifting through clouds cast light just bright enough to show Freya seated on her perch. He could tell from her tense, two-footed stance that she was nervous.

  ‘What is it?’ Zuleyka whispered behind him.

  ‘Probably wolves,’ he said, not really believing it.

  He crawled out. The dog faced upwind, jaws rucked back and a snarl bubbling deep in its throat.

  Wayland caught a whiff of tallow and mildewed wool. He squirmed back into the tent.

  ‘Our visitors walk on two legs,’ he said.

  To her credit, Zuleyka didn’t panic. ‘Bandits?’

  ‘Nobody else would sneak up on a lonely camp at dead of night. Wait here.’

  Zuleyka threw off her coverings. ‘I’m coming with you.’

  They waited until the moon disappeared behind clouds before creeping to the Tibetans’ tent. Wayland’s news threw them into panic.

  ‘Keep your voices down,’ he hissed.

  ‘How many are there?’ one said.

  ‘I don’t know. I assume they outnumber us.’

  The Tibetans gabbled like frightened geese. ‘The devils never travel in gangs of less than a dozen. We’re too few to fight them. Let’s escape now, under the cloak of night.’

  Wayland shook the man. ‘They’ll hear us loading and saddling.’

  ‘We’ll have to go on foot and leave the beasts.’

  Wayland argued in vain for them to stay. Terror had seized the Tibetans and headlong flight was the only way to put it behind them. They delayed only long enough to throw a few possessions together before creeping out of the tent.

  Wayland grabbed one of them. ‘If you’re going to flee, at least do it properly. Wait for the moon to hide.’ He gripped tight until the earth went into eclipse, then gave a push. ‘That way. Run and keep on running.’

  Zuleyka fumbled for him. ‘Why aren’t we going with them?’

  ‘We’re safer on our own.’

  ‘Wayland!’

  ‘Hush.’ His finger traced her mouth. ‘It will soon be light. If the bandits find an empty camp they’ll come after us. On foot we’ll never get away. They’ll catch us and kill us.’

  ‘They’ll kill us if we stay here.’

  ‘I think I can talk our way out.’

  Clouds covered the moon. Wayland took Zuleyka’s hand and ran for their tent. He pulled the bed covers over both of them.

  ‘Are we just going to sit here?’

  ‘The dog will warn us if they attack. They won’t, though.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s dark and they don’t know how many they’re facing.’

  Zuleyka shivered against him. ‘I’m scared. You know what they’ll do to me.’

  He put an arm around her and nestled her face on his chest. Her shudders subsided.

  ‘This is the first time you’ve shown tenderness to me.’

  ‘It’s the first time I’m certain that tenderness won’t flare into passion.’

  He could feel her heart beating as fast as a bird’s. He stroked her hair. Outside, the eagle roused and adjusted its position. He thought Zuleyka was asleep when she whispered his name.

  ‘Tell me about your wife.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t even know her name.’

  ‘I’d rather keep it to myself.’

  ‘You’re scared that I’ll put the evil eye on her.’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘Perhaps. Is she beautiful?’

  ‘I knew you were going to say that.’

  ‘Well, is she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘More beautiful than me?’

  ‘You’re opposites. She’s as fair as you’re dark.’

  ‘Tell me about your children.’

  ‘Why do you keep asking questions?’

  ‘It helps keeps fear away. Also, I want to know more about you before I die.’

  ‘My son’s eight, my daughter’s four.’

  ‘You must have been very young when you became a father.’

  ‘I was about your age.’

  ‘Does that mean you haven’t known another woman?’

  Wayland gave a husky laugh. ‘This is the closest I’ve come.’

  Zuleyka rose up and peered at him though the dark before settling again.

  ‘What about you?’ he said. ‘I don’t believe you’re a virgin.’

  ‘I am when I want to be.’

  Wayland’s chuckle began in his belly and worked up through his chest.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  The dog barked. Wayland threw off the covers and reached for his war bow.

  ‘Time to prepare for our guests.’

  He waited beside the dog, an arrow nocked and another dozen close to hand. Zuleyka crouched behind him. The dog growled continuously and the eagle bated from its perch. Wayland stood.

  ‘Ho! Who approaches from behind the curtain of night?’

  ‘Harmless travellers,’ a voice said. ‘We saw your fire last night and wondered who was camping in such a lonely place.’

  ‘I’m surprised you took so long to show yourselves. I hope it wasn’t fear that held you back.’

  The dog ran stiff-legged towards the bandits and stood with mane raised, barking defiance. Wayland called it back.


  Dawn when it came was just a pale version of night, the landscape leached of colour and the mountains smothered under clouds.

  ‘Now I see you. Welcome, untamed sons.’

  Fourteen mounted shapes materialised out of the half-light. Zuleyka muffled a scream. ‘They’re demons.’

  Moulded leather masks hid the bandits’ faces, giving them a terrifying aspect. Apart from the masks, there was little agreement in their costume or weaponry. Some wore black or wine-red chubas, one sleeve dangling like wrinkled trunks, exposing their hairless chests to the freezing air. Some were bare-headed, their ropy black locks set off with eagle feathers and cowrie shells. Others wore sheepskin helmets or fox fur hats. Most carried swords of various designs, a crude sabre being the most fashionable. Others made do with lances or clubs. All had short bows slung over their shoulders.

  At the centre of the band a man distinguished by a corselet of fine but distressed mail raised a hand and gave an oddly girlish little wave.

  ‘I was about to prepare breakfast,’ Wayland said. ‘Please join us.’

  The gang halted. ‘Where are your companions?’ said the mail-clad leader.

  ‘They fled in the night. They thought you might be bandits.’

  The masked men looked at each other through their leather peepholes and then advanced. One of them slashed the yak herders’ tent before peering inside.

  ‘Where did they go?’

  Wayland shrugged. ‘Back to the road.’

  The leader looked down on Wayland from his saddle. ‘Where have you come from?’

  ‘The Palace of Perfect Emancipation.’

  ‘Ah. Where are you going?’

  Wayland pointed. ‘Nepal.’

  ‘Ah. You won’t reach it that way.’

  Wayland crouched and kindled a dung fire into flame. The leader watched him, then leaned down and lifted his blond hair. He gave it a tug, testing to see if it was a wig.

  ‘What country are you from?’

  ‘England,’ said Wayland. He reached up in turn and raised the bandit’s mask. Bloodshot eyes looked at him from a face coated with soot, grease and dust. One scarred eyelid sagged in a squint. He wore his hair piled-up in ribboned braids that unbound would have hung to his waist. At odds with his cut-throat countenance, he wore around his neck an amulet showing an image of Buddha wearing a tranquil smile that represented his compassion for all living things

  ‘No wonder you wear a mask,’ Wayland said.

  He was quick at languages, and in the three months spent with Yonden, he’d become a proficient Tibetan speaker, unwittingly picking up an aristocratic dialect.

  One of the bandits tittered. The leader scowled round, then turned back to Wayland and bared rust-coloured fangs the shape of tombstones.

  ‘All of you show your faces,’ Wayland said. ‘You can’t drink tea wearing masks.’

  The bandits exchanged glances. At their leader’s command, they uncovered themselves. Masked or bare, they were as complete a set of villains as Wayland had encountered in all his wanderings – wolf-faced and filthy, their faces coated with greasy dirt like a second skin.

  The yak dung burned hot and bright, giving off no smoke. Wayland set a pot of water to boil. ‘My name’s Wayland. Who are you?’

  The leader hesitated. ‘Osher.’ He pointed at Zuleyka. ‘Your wife?’

  ‘A nun. We’re making a pilgrimage to the shrine of one of our saints.’

  ‘Why didn’t you run away with the others?’

  ‘Unlike them, we’re not cowards.’

  Osher seemed nonplussed. ‘Aren’t you frightened that we might be bandits?’

  ‘I know you’re bandits. Sit.’

  ‘Aren’t you scared that we’ll kill you?’

  ‘We can talk about that when you’ve drunk your tea. Before I kill anyone, I like to know as much about them as I can.’

  Osher fanned out his chuba and subsided cross-legged on the ground. Half a dozen of his men joined him, the rest remaining mounted, some staring with vicious intent, some wearing loopy grins, others gawping and slack-jawed.

  ‘You have a fine pair of boots,’ Wayland said to Osher.

  The leader looked at his footwear with some pride. ‘They were made by my brother-in-law, the best bootmaker in Kham.’

  ‘Ah, you’re Khampas. The monks warned me about your tribe. You’re a long way from home.’

  Zuleyka made the tea Tibetan-style, hacking a lump off a brick of chai and dropping it into the boiling water. After letting it stew, she poured the liquor into a brass-bound wooden cylinder fitted with a plunger. She added butter and worked the plunger, producing slurping sounds that made some of the Khampas exchange lewd guffaws. Osher stilled their antics with a gesture. Lazy-eyed, he watched as Zuleyka, the picture of pious modesty, decanted the liquid into the pot. The bandits took bowls from inside their robes.

  Wayland produced a bag of tsampa. ‘Help yourselves.’

  The Khampas dug into the barley and trickled it into their cups, kneading it with filthy fingers until it was the consistency of stiff dough.

  Osher shovelled a handful into his mouth. ‘This country you come from. Is it in India?’

  ‘Further.’

  Osher’s gaze wandered as he racked his memory for geographical references. ‘Persia?’

  Wayland drank. ‘Further. Much further. I come from the land where the sun sinks at the end of the world.’

  ‘How did you reach Tibet?’

  ‘We crossed the Chang Thang from Khotan.’

  Osher regarded the dog, sitting fifty yards away in an alert attitude. He took another scoop of meal. ‘Call your hound over.’

  ‘It won’t come.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it knows you’ll kill it. Have some more chai.’

  Osher dashed the pot from Wayland’s hands. He drew his sword and pointed at the dog. Four horsemen spurred forwards and it turned tail and fled. Screaming like banshees, the Khampas galloped in pursuit.

  The rest of them began rifling through the travellers’ goods. One of them snatched up Wayland’s target bow, showing off the gilt inscriptions to his companions as if they were cabbalistic signs. He flexed the weapon, his grin contorting when he realised he couldn’t pull the bow to half draw. A comrade took the weapon from him, heaved with all his strength and shattered an arrow, taking the skin off his left wrist as he released.

  The bandits went still and watched Wayland. He held out a hand and at a word from Osher the archer returned the bow. Wayland indicated a cairn about two hundred yards away.

  ‘Let’s have a friendly competition. Whoever lands an arrow closest to the target wins.’

  The Khampas jostled like children trying to impress. Their bows were short, made from inferior materials degraded by age and exposure to the elements. The closest shot fell more than twenty yards short of the mark.

  Wayland nocked an arrow. ‘That will be difficult to match.’ He rocked backwards against the draw and loosed. The arrow had just reached the top of its arc when it passed high over the cairn, falling to earth a furlong beyond the target.

  ‘Lost,’ Wayland said. ‘In this thin air it’s hard to calculate range.’

  A bandit broke the silence with a laugh. Someone else laughed and then they were all laughing. Wayland offered his bow to Osher. ‘Do you want to try?’

  The Khampa extended a hand and dug fingernails as hard as chisels into Wayland’s cheek. ‘You like to play tricks. Don’t play tricks on me.’ He stepped back and turned his attention on the eagle. Until now the Khampas had overlooked the bird or simply refused to believe their eyes. Freya had regained her perch and stood unhooded with her gnarled feet firmly planted, body held horizontal and feathers tight.

  ‘Ko-wo,’ said Osher.

  Wayland nodded. ‘I trapped her in the Taklamakan.’

  At a gesture from Osher, one of the Khampas went to investigate. Freya watched him. As he approached, she swelled into hump-backed aggression, head thrown
back, beak agape, feathers raised in a ruff.

  ‘I wouldn’t go any closer,’ Wayland said.

  One more step and Freya flung herself at the Khampa, lunging against her leash. The man hesitated, drew his sword and raised it.

  Voices on all sides shouted at him to leave the eagle alone. Osher called him back and harangued him.

  ‘The eagle is the spirit of our clan,’ he told Wayland. ‘Is it the same with you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Wayland. ‘Also I hunt game with her.’

  ‘Hunt?’

  It became clear that the Khampas had no knowledge of falconry. ‘I’ve trained her to catch animals.’

  ‘When you let her loose,’ Osher said, ‘why doesn’t she fly away?’

  ‘I’ve cast a spell on her.’

  The Khampas crowded round, agog with curiosity. ‘What does she hunt?’ said one.

  ‘Hares, foxes…’

  ‘Will she kill a wolf?’

  Wayland could see from the way the Khampas hung on his answer that the wolf held some significance for them. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never tried her at one. Why do you ask?’

  ‘The wolf is the totem of a rival clan,’ Osher said. He stared at Freya. ‘Show me her hunting.’

  ‘Today the clouds are too thick,’ Wayland said. He picked up his saddle. ‘It’s time we were going.’

  Osher pointed at the mountains. ‘You won’t reach Nepal that way. There isn’t a path.’

  ‘Yes, there is.’

  ‘Why do you want to go up there?’

  ‘I told you. We’re making a pilgrimage to a temple where a holy man of my religion once studied.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Oussu.’

  Osher’s gaze wandered past Wayland. The Khampas who’d chased the dog out of sight were returning on lathered horses. One of them spread his hands in a gesture of defeat. Wayland began to saddle up. Osher laid his sword across the saddle. His men waited.

  ‘We only need one yak,’ Wayland said. ‘You can keep the other animals. Take the spare tent as well.’

  Once again Osher studied the mountains. ‘We’ll ride with you a little way. I want to see your eagle hunt.’

  Zuleyka drew level with Wayland. ‘I thought you said the way was too dangerous.’