WHEN THE SMALL monks clear the bowls, the rest of the group begins filing from the room and we join the tail of the line.
“So, are you up to a long walk tomorrow?” asks Danny. “The lakes should be something.”
“Ask me tomorrow,” I say. At the moment, I’m focusing on walking back to my room.
“Mr Robert?” I turn back. It is the leather-faced monk. “Can I speak?”
“Of course.”
The monk smiles and looks at Danny but says nothing.
“Oh,” says Danny. “Sorry, I’ll leave you to it.” And he joins the line leaving the hall.
“Please,” says the old monk, gesturing to a bench. I sit down and the monk settles beside me, a wizened old face with sparkling eyes.
“You are well now?”
“Yes,” I say. “Thank you for everything you’ve done.”
The monk’s eyes smile. Then he says, “You came to Tibet for something, isn’t it?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Why you came here?”
I shrug. “To get away from my life for a while.”
The monk nods and chuckles. “Running away.”
“Well, more just taking a break. I lost my job, you see, and my...”
“And your wife?” says the monk. “I am sorry, your friend tells me.”
“She wasn’t my wife.”
“I am still sorry.”
“That’s okay.”
“Your friend say you are a scientist.”
“My friend talks too much,” I mumble, and his face wrinkles into a grin. “Yes, I’m a scientist.”
“What kind of scientist?”
“Physics and computer science. I work... I used to work in research.”
The old monk raises his eyebrows and nods. “Very important work. What is it you researching?”
“We were looking for something called dark matter.”
The old monk frowns and nods, his face serious. “Many matters are dark.” When he looks up, he says, “Which one is it you looking for?”
“No,” I shake my head. How the hell do I explain this to a Tibetan monk?“No, it’s... eh... you know when you look around you and you see things like...” – I cast around for inspiration – “...like the table or the bench or a tree – anything that is solid matter?”
“Yes?”
“Well, we’ve found something else in the universe – something that isn’t solid matter.”
“Yes?”
“Most of the universe is made up of something else, something we don’t fully understand. We’re looking for the missing piece of the universe.”
The monk chuckles and shakes his head.
“What?” It’s difficult not to smile even though I’ve no idea what’s tickling him.
“The scientists are catching up.”
He settles, eventually, and raises his eyebrows, creasing his forehead into a stack of ridges. “Your parents are very proud, I think.”
“Well, I guess my mum is – my dad died when I was three. He was a physicist too, so I suppose he would have been.”
“I am sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.”
The monk stares at the floor then asks, “Did you find what you come for?”
I got more than I bargained for, but let’s not go into that. “Yeah, you know, the peace and tranquillity and all that. Where I live, we don’t have that much.”
“It is very busy place, your world. But you found your peace on the mountain?”
I hesitate. The memory, the ridiculous memory of the voice comes to me, and the certainty I had then that something else came down the mountain with us, something I found myself trusting. Hypothermia can do strange things to you. “I suppose you could say that.”
“Good. It is a good place to find peace.”
We sit together and neither speaks until the old monk says, “But you are still going back? To your life?”
“Yeah. Of course.” What’s left of it.
“Hmmm. So you run away and you run back again.” He chuckles. “Maybe your life is not something out there.” He waves his arm vaguely to the side. “Maybe it is something in here.” He holds a fist against my chest. “And when you run you take it with you. Sometimes you have to let go the life you planned, to make room for the life that is waiting for you.”
“Is that a Tibetan saying?”
“No. But it is the words of a wise man.”
We sit in companionable silence for a while longer, before the monk says, “Do you remember the lake?”
“The lake?”
“We found you by the Crescent Lake. Do you remember this?”
“I remember seeing a lake when we came down the mountain.” Mirror smooth, black. Not a ripple or reflection on its surface. And that feeling...
The old man’s eyes narrow. “You remember nothing else?”
“No.”
“Hmm.” He leans closer, peering into my face; a small, curious creature. “What did you feel?”
I wipe away the beads of sweat that have gathered on my forehead, feeling my lips dry again. “I felt, eh... kind of uneasy.” I shake my head as I think of it. “I thought the sun had gone black, and the sound, it was...”
But he’s frowning at me in a way that’s making me nervous. “You heard it?”
“It was like voices, whispering. It felt almost... dark.”
The old monk sags, his face crumpling even further. He stares at me for a long moment as if I’ve disappointed him somehow.
“Listen, I was dry and cold and hallucinating. That’s all.”
“No.”
“Well, what was it, then?”
He takes a long, slow breath. “There are two lakes on the mountain. One, Lake Manasarovar, is shaped like the sun; it is called the Lake of Consciousness. The other, the one shaped like the crescent moon, we call Rakshastal, the Lake of Demons. These two lakes are joined by a thin channel of water. When waters flow from the Lake of Consciousness to the Lake of Demons, all is well. But the signs that came to you tell us the waters are flowing the other way, and this is very bad.”
“So, what does that mean?”
“It means the energies are changing – they are shifting between the worlds.”
I hear a soft scuttling and a shiny black cockroach appears from under the bench. I think about stepping on it, but remember where I am. It scuttles past the monk’s foot, claiming sanctuary.
“You believe that there are other worlds? Like other dimensions?” I don’t know much about Buddhism, only what I’ve picked up from Cora, but I didn’t think this was part of it.
“They are here, right next to us, only a breath away. Very few can sense them, and even fewer understand it when they manifest. You are one of those people, and you believe they are there, I think.”
Don’t drag me into your superstitious folklore. “No,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s not what I believe.”
“Then what do you look for, in your work?”
“Dark matter? No, that’s completely different.”
He snorts.
“It’s nothing to do with other worlds.”
“You seem very certain.”
Well, old man, I am. But right now, I don’t have it in me to explain. I just smile.
He nods. “Perhaps one day you will see for yourself. But I hope you do not see the World you sensed here. I would not wish that on you, or anyone.”
I hear the whispering in my head again and feel a sickening clamminess on my skin as I catch a flash of a black sphere. My mind playing tricks. “So, what’s supposed to happen when these energies shift?”
“The world you sensed will leak into ours; what you felt will become our world, until that is all there is to feel. Unless people like you choose to stop it.”
“What?”
He gets up, slowly. There’s something else in his eyes. Is it fear? “Tell no one, until you listen to it and understand.” He lowers his eyes to the floor.
“I am sorry, but you must leave at sunrise.” He bows and turns, then shuffles away and doesn’t look back.
“YOU ALRIGHT?” SAYS Danny when I find him waiting in the empty corridor. “You don’t look well.”
“I’m still recovering, remember?” But there’s something inside me that has nothing to do with physical weakness.
“What was all that about, anyway?”
The monk’s words gnaw at me. Bad juju. “Nothing. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
Chapter Four
MY CARRIAGE PULLS up in front of the monastery – a small, battered, dark green truck which stutters to a halt with a shudder that rattles its doors. The chances of it making it down the mountain intact are slim. The chances of it making it to Lhasa Airport, which lies several days to the southeast? It would be a safer bet that Danny Mitchell will end up working on Wall Street.
I sling my rucksack into the back, beside some old rugs and faded bundles tied together with ropes. The driver takes the cigarette stub from the corner of his mouth and flashes me a toothless grin, pulling the canvas flap down over the cargo. The wind and sun have left their signature in the creases and texture of his face. There’s mischief in the small, dark eyes that peer out above high cheekbones. He pulls his fur jacket up round his neck and places the cigarette stub in the edge of his mouth, blinking as the smoke rises into his eyes.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay on? Even for another week?” says Danny. “The trek round the lakes should be something.”
There’s no question of staying here. I haven’t slept properly since... I glance up at the mountain looming in the middle distance. “I just need to get home.” Behind me, on the steps of the monastery, the old monk is watching.
“I’ll let you know about the next trip, whenever it comes up,” says Danny. “Take care of yourself.” He holds out a hand.
“You too.” I grip his hand and shake it. “Keep out of trouble, okay?” I know he won’t, but saying it absolves me of responsibility when he doesn’t.
Danny grins. I get into the truck, where the leather seats are worn through so that the springs are just visible at the edges. They squeak in protest when I sit on them. It smells of cigarettes and damp clothes, and there’s a crack at the bottom left corner of the windscreen.
The driver jumps in, grinning his gums at me as his cigarette wobbles. He scrapes the long gearstick into neutral and turns the key. He mumbles something I don’t catch, and wheezes at his own joke as the engine growls to life, a puff of smoke chugging from the back, the smell of diesel suffusing the icy air. Danny’s waving figure retreats as we pull away from the monastery, dwarfed by the white mountain. I’m itching to get away from here, back to reality. I thought about little else during another night of sleeplessness, and the memory of that black lake. I don’t do ghost stories, especially ones that gatecrash your subconscience. But I didn’t bank on feeling a sense of loss. Something about losing that feeling of certainty I had on the mountain. That life would never be so clear again.
The truck bounces over the shingle-strewn ground, the springs squeaking their objections like a pen of frustrated piglets. The driver is in his element, hooting and grinning each time we shudder over the bumpy ground. Six years ago I spent three months on the back of a Suzuki DR350, negotiating the rubble trails of Mongolia that are passed off as roads. I like off-road driving, preferably on two wheels – it’s the stuff of adventure. I love the purity, the freedom, the danger. But my fingers close round the roof handle of the truck and my other hand grips the patchy leather of the seat. There’s no-one else on the road for us to hit, but his driving is making me nervous.
We pass through several small towns, where men and women sit on the side of the road selling yak meat from coloured rugs, and children dressed in bright, grubby clothes, with unruly dark hair and running noses, crouch in the street playing games in the dust or running, waving after the fair-haired stranger in the truck. The towns give way to valleys of green splashed with snow, and great canyons spanned by metal bridges; the kiss of industrialisation, even out here in the wilderness.
The miles bounce away under the tyres and each one of them carries me further away from the mountain and the black lake. For four days we travel towards the southeast, stopping in the small villages to eat and to try to sleep. The driver, Jinpa, knows someone in each of the settlements and finds us rooms for a few yuan. I’m not sleeping well. I don’t know what happened on the mountain. Part of me just wants to forget.
THE FLIGHT IS on time. We take off from one of the highest airports in the world, over the sandy razor-peaked mountains and turquoise rivers meandering through the dusty valley basins. One day away from home, thank God. One day away from a pint of beer, a hot shower. Chips and curry sauce. Anything that’s not tsampa and sodding butter tea. The gloss will wear off before I’ve unpacked my rucksack, I know, but until then, I’ll savour it all.
The wilderness becomes patchy, obscured by blotches of white cloud, succumbing to dense, grey fog. The engines whine and shudder over some invisible bumps in the sky. Nothing out of the ordinary. A ping announces the seatbelt sign is switched off. A couple of people make their way up the central aisle to the toilets. One of them is a monk, not unlike the one with the crumpled face from the monastery. I get a sinking feeling in my stomach that has nothing to do with turbulence.
Other worlds. Some physicists believe in an infinitely expanding cosmos full of parallel universes, all budding off every time we make a choice about anything. Just another theory, and not one that’s cost me any sleep. So how come the monk’s superstition is getting to me? It’s ridiculous. One fairytale with a bad ending and I want to keep the light on. I look down. My fingertips are gripping the armrest. The seatbelt sign is switched off, but mine is still tight around my waist. This is the third time I’ve checked that it’s secure. What the hell’s wrong with me?
“Are you alright, sir?” The air stewardess is frowning at me. Her perfume announced her approach five seats away. Her face is the colour of a tangerine, and quite distinct from the colour of her neck.
“What? Eh, I’m fine, thanks.”
“Not keen on flying?” She purses her scarlet lips and inclines her head, giving me that look that mums learn to give to children when they graze their knees.
“No, I don’t know what’s got into me this time. I’m usually fine with it.”
“Just relax and try to get some sleep. We’ll be there in no time.”
I can’t wait. What for, I’m not quite sure.
I WALK AMONGST the droves of people striding through the corridors of Manchester Airport, yawning and rubbing my eyes. My muscles feel like they’ve been locked in a dusty cupboard for a month. Outside, the early morning light bulges between grey clouds on the other side of the large panelled windows. We arrive in a foyer with shops – shops that sell things you didn’t realise you had to have until they reminded you, like miniature bottles of shampoo and shower gel in case you feel compelled to wash your hair on the plane. There’s something about entering an airport that plays on the idea that you’re escaping to something better – leather bags to give you that executive look, perfume to make you smell like a film star, whatever that scent may be, jewellery modelled by some heroin-chic stick insect. Maybe, if you’re here long enough, you have a party in your own head, where you are that executive, or film star or stick insect. And all at a price that’s a snip if you move in circles where having second homes in Paris or New York is commonplace. And if you don’t? Well, why not just pretend, for a little while? Make the most of the daydream.
I don’t like daydreamers. This is Manchester, for fuck’s sake.
I make for the coffee stand and join the queue. My watch, a genuine 1993 Swatch watch, tells me I’ve got two hours until the next train. I pay for my coffee and walk to an empty table. The chair scrapes on the tiled floor as I pull it back, making the skin on my arms prickle. I drop my pack and slump into the seat, before the obligatory mobile phone check-
in. Maybe she sent you a message. Its screen stares up, blank and unapologetic, telling me she hasn’t. What was I expecting?
There’s a bald man in a suit sitting at the table across from me, tapping feverishly on his laptop. He keeps sighing at it as though annoyed by its fickle performance. A mobile phone sits on the seat next to him. Armani suit, Rolex, cufflinks. An executive. A real one. Why’s he frowning then? What’s he so worried about? He’s meant to have it made.
At the next table sits a teenager, with purple hair that sticks out in all directions over her button earphones. She’s blowing pink bubbles, her head bent over her phone, texting at a speed that makes my thumb ache just watching her.
People bustle past. They’re right when they say that airports are great places to people-watch. Most of them look like they’re late for something because they walk at a pace just short of a run and almost none of them smile. They do their best to avoid eye contact, locked in their own worlds. I think back to the kids running after the truck in the dusty villages, smiling and waving.
Should I call her? Maybe I should tell her about what happened – it’s crazy enough for her to understand.
The Eidolon Page 5
