This was it. They were on their way.
‘Take Babu and get back to the monastery,’ Luca said, turning back towards Shara. ‘Warn as many monks as you can. Then, for Christ’s sake, get the boy out and deeper into the mountains. Get him as far away from here as you can.’
‘No. We’ve got to stick together. We’ll make it back and get the monks out together.’
Luca shook his head. ‘There’s no time. Now do as I say!’
He got to his feet, pushing them towards the path on the far side of the gulley.
‘But what are you going to do?’ Shara asked.
‘Try and buy you some time. Now, please, Shara, go!’
‘Luca, you must come . . .’
As she spoke, they heard more shouts and both turned to see the soldiers running out of the campsite and up the snow gulley. They had been seen.
‘Go!’ Luca shouted and Shara staggered forward, pulling Babu by the arm. She stared at Luca one last time, before dropping out of sight, following the path back towards the monastery. Luca glanced up to see Geltang perched on the distant rocks, its buildings washed red by the glow of the morning sun. He had to do something.
Turning back towards the gulley, he craned his neck over the top of the snow cornice to see three figures ploughing up through the snow towards him. They held their rifles above their heads, surging forward in single file. There were more shouts then others appeared, leaving their tents and following in their comrades’ tracks up the steep slope.
Why hadn’t they taken a shot at them? Why weren’t they firing?
Luca’s head turned slowly towards the ground as the answer came to him. The soldiers were scared of triggering an avalanche. The entire gulley was filled with heavy powder, melted into unstable layers by the heat of the midday sun.
An avalanche.
Tearing open his rucksack, Luca pulled out his MSR stove and the reinforced metal fuel bottle. He’d done it as a schoolboy once before, but would this single bottle really have the power to collapse the cornice? He looked at it, the metal cold in his hands, praying it would be enough.
Reaching back into his rucksack, he pulled out his old Nalgene water bottle, unscrewing the top and flinging what was left of his water on to the snow. Decanting the contents of the fuel bottle into it, he raised it to the light, watching the Coleman’s white fuel slosh from side to side. Then, with a sharp jab of his pocket-knife, he stabbed a tiny hole through the plastic lid and carefully placed the bottle upright in the snow beside him.
Luca turned, looking down into the gulley. The soldiers were already a third of the way up and moving fast. He could hear their shouts filtering up the side of the mountain.
Wrenching open his jacket, he tore a long strip from the bottom of his T-shirt, cutting the last of the cotton free with his knife. He poured a little more fuel over the cotton, using the blade of the knife to poke it through the hole in the lid of the water bottle. With a sharp twist of his hands, he sealed tight the lid.
He’d been sixteen when, with a few friends, he’d first managed to make a Molotov cocktail from an old whisky bottle and some fuel siphoned from his dad’s lawnmower. On the third attempt it had blown the park swings from their foundations, charring the entire metal frame. Pressure . . . that was the secret to making a Molotov cocktail actually explode. He needed to seal the water bottle tight.
Luca stared down at his own shaking hands, the spilled fuel shimmering on his skin. He twisted the lid as tight as he could, then, on his hands and knees, began digging in the snow, stabbing at it with the blade of his pocket-knife. He kept digging, scraping the loose snow away with his bare hands and flinging it in a pile behind him. Soon he was up to his elbow, then his shoulder.
Still he kept digging at the narrow hole. The knuckles of his hands started bleeding, rubbed raw from the snow, and he could feel his chest heaving up and down. Eventually he stopped, sitting back on his knees. He grabbed the water bottle, sloshing the very last dregs of fuel over the wick, and pulled his lighter from his pocket.
The flint caught, sending sparks across his hand, but there was no flame. Desperately he pressed his thumb down, spinning the wheel again and again. At last a tiny blue flame flickered up, no bigger than the nail of his thumb. Luca quickly ran it under the fabric until the fire spread slowly, moving with an almost invisible flame. Then, sliding the bottle down into the hole, he packed handfuls of snow over the opening and stepped back quickly.
Seconds passed. Nothing happened. Luca stood with his hands clutched in front of his chest, willing the fuel to catch. He heard more shouts and moved to one side, staring down into the gulley.
The first of the line of soldiers was nearing the summit. Luca could see his face clearly now, his cheeks flushed with colour from the effort of wading up through the deep snow. His jacket was unbuttoned, flapping out behind him, and his bare hands were clamped round the grip of his rifle, the finger already resting against the trigger.
The soldier looked up, straight into Luca’s eyes. The muzzle of his rifle instinctively swivelled towards him, but then the soldier’s eyes flicked towards the huge overhanging snow cornice just to his left. He lowered the rifle, but surged forward with renewed energy. He was almost at the top.
‘Shit!’ Luca screamed, looking down at the pile of snow. It hadn’t worked.
For a moment he glanced towards Geltang, every instinct telling him to follow Shara and run for it. Then, diving forward, he clawed back the snow and reached inside. He pulled the water bottle to the surface, staring down at the improvised wick.
The flame had gone out.
Brushing the snow off, he lit the wick again, the lighter catching easily this time. Slamming the bottle back into the snow, he managed to throw only a single handful over the opening before flinging himself backwards. Just beyond the edge of the snow cornice, he heard a shout. He turned to see the top half of the soldier standing a pace below the ridge. His rifle was raised, pointing at Luca.
It was over.
Chapter 55
‘LOOK AT HIM,’ Rega shouted out across the sea of expectant faces. ‘The seventh Abbot of Geltang and High Lama of the blue order. Yet he is nothing more than a tired old man!’
Light pierced the Great Temple from tall windows set either side of the gilded doors. The night’s torches were still lit but slowly dying as the full light of morning streamed into the crowded chamber.
‘Do not be deceived,’ Rega continued, his voice straining, ‘he is no great leader. He just rots in his chambers, allowing our sacred monastery to go to ruin as he follows his own selfish path. Even now the Chinese approach, yet he does nothing!’
The Abbot was standing in front of the dais wrapped in the coarse, brown clothing of the Perfect Life. The tunic had been ripped open below his chest so that his narrow shoulders were bare, the skin waxen and pale from so many days spent closeted from the daylight. His head was lowered, eyes shut, while Rega ranted just above him.
For nearly an hour the public denunciation had continued, with Rega stirring the crowd into a frenzy. When the Abbot had first been paraded in front of the dais, silence had descended across the Great Temple. Each monk had stared in mute amazement at the filthy old man before them, his clothes in rags and his head bent low. Could this really be their sacred leader?
But as Rega’s accusations continued, the untouchable aura that once seemed to surround the Abbot was quickly washed away by the mocking contempt of the novices. They crowded the dais, hanging on Rega’s every word and baying for action.
Standing against a side wall, Dorje burned with frustration. He stared out impotently across the sea of sneering faces and the whole incredible scene before him. Why didn’t the Abbot say something? Why didn’t he deny these ridiculous charges and win back his monastery?
Dorje watched the mass of monks surge forward again. There were over five hundred of them crammed into the temple, shouting and jostling for a better view, while their elders stood, like Dorje, on the perip
hery. They remained in silence, unable to make themselves heard above the noise and chaos.
Then Dorje understood. It was the same for the Abbot. Even if he tried to protest, no one would have heard him.
A soft breeze blew through the temple. Dorje looked up as the flames of the candles flickered. The gilded doors were being forced back on their hinges, and beyond them two figures had stepped into the light. He saw Shara’s long black hair and the boy clutched in her arms.
Dorje moved towards the back of the dais. He jostled against the other monks, fighting his way through, until he could see the trumpeters standing in a line.
‘Sound the arrival!’ he ordered above the din. The first of the trumpeters stared at him in confusion.
‘Do as I say!’ Dorje yelled. A moment later, the silver trumpet blasted out a long, shimmering note. The noise of the crowd lessened, as Rega spun round to see what was happening.
‘Who ordered you to play?’ he thundered, but Dorje had already reached the back of the dais and clambered up on top. He rushed forward across the stage, looking out at the crowd.
‘Silence!’ he shouted, pointing towards the door. ‘Silence for the Panchen Lama – the rightful leader of Tibet.’
Silence fell as all eyes turned to the temple doors where Babu slowly slipped from Shara’s grasp. He stood uncertainly by her side, his large brown eyes staring from face to face in the crowd.
‘So the boy returns,’ Rega whispered, craning his neck round.
A muttering began as Shara led Babu forward by the hand. The monks pressed back and a ragged path was cleared all the way to the dais and the Abbot’s marble throne. Babu walked through it, his felt boots taking small, steady steps across the vast temple floor. His heavy sheepskin jacket was bunched up around his shoulders so that his chin was buried in the soft wool while his eyes stared out above, passing slowly from monk to monk.
As they approached, Rega raised a finger.
‘This is indeed the new reincarnation of the Panchen Lama,’ he shouted. ‘He has been within our very walls, yet the Abbot kept him from us. He deceived us all.’ Rega stalked forward to the edge of the dais. ‘Listen to me, my brothers. I will take the boy and restore him to his rightful place. I will return him to his seat in Shigatse and win back our country!’
There was a cheer from some of the novices as Shara and Babu came to halt in front of them. Shara was staring at Rega, at his gold robes and the Dharmachakra raised in his right hand, unable to believe what had happened in her absence. He had taken control of the monastery.
Averting her eyes from his lifeless gaze, she turned to the Abbot, reaching forward and holding on to his arm.
‘The Chinese are coming,’ she whispered. ‘We must evacuate the monastery.’
Before the Abbot could answer, Rega turned back towards the crowd. He had heard what she had said.
‘The moment has come, my brothers!’ he bellowed. ‘The Chinese are finally upon us. It is time to fight!’
At this the Abbot finally raised his hand, trying to shout above the wave of fresh panic and shouting that erupted.
‘No! Do not give in to violence. We must evacuate, go deeper into the mountains . . .’
‘Fight!’ Rega screamed again, punching his arm into the air. ‘It is time for Geltang to lead the revolution and defeat the Chinese! We must fight!’
The monks burst into action, surging towards the temple doors. Eyes were wide with elation while fists punched the air, mimicking Rega. Some held heavy brass candlesticks in their hands, while others had broken the low palisade surrounding the dais, using the thick wooden poles as makeshift cudgels. They began stampeding towards the temple doors, a mob ready to lynch anyone in their path.
Rega’s voice carried above the din, urging them on with every last breath, while the Abbot shouted in vain, still trying to be heard.
In the space just before the dais, Babu sat down on the floor. He inhaled deeply, tucking one leg across the other in the lotus position, and with his hands gently resting on his knees, began a slow, melodious chant. The words rolled from his lips as his eyes clamped shut, his expression changing to one of complete calm. Amidst the mayhem and confusion, his stillness attracted the attention of those immediately surrounding him.
The Abbot stared down at him, an incredulous smile on his lips. Then he moved forward and lowered himself on to the floor beside him, staring at the boy’s face for an instant before shutting his own eyes and picking up the same chant. Their two heads swayed back and forth in unison, the words rolling from their lips in a soft, unbroken flow.
In the semi-circle around the dais the crowd stared at them, caught between the hysteria of the novices and the sudden calmness of the Abbot and the boy. Dorje bustled to the front, joining them on the floor, before Shara quickly followed, settling herself down beside Babu. A few of the elders who were watching also lowered themselves on to the ground, picking up the rhythm of the chant. Then more followed. And still more.
Voice built on voice, merging together to create a steady undercurrent to the panic all around. Up on the dais, Rega jerked his head from side to side.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ he shouted, trying to understand where the chant was coming from. ‘The Chinese approach. You cannot just sit here in prayer!’
Soon a different sort of movement was spreading through the great hall as the remaining monks looked back and saw a growing circle of their brothers seated on the floor. While some just turned to stare at the spectacle, others followed suit. Large swathes of the temple began to fill with seated monks, joined shoulder to shoulder, each swaying in rhythm with the chant.
The noise grew and grew as more monks returned to join their brothers on the floor of the temple, until only a few of the novices were left standing.
The Abbot got to his feet then, signalling to the trumpeter to sound the note again. It blasted out across the temple before wavering into silence. All eyes turned towards him.
‘Brothers, this is Geltang,’ he said, gesturing to the seated gathering. ‘Compassion is our guiding principle. Not violence.’
Gently raising Babu to his feet, he led him to the throne set on the dais. Clambering on to it, he looked tiny in the wide seat of ornately carved stone.
‘This is our new leader,’ the Abbot announced, turning to face the crowd once again. ‘We recognise His Holiness Babugedhun Choekyi Nyima, eleventh Panchen Lama and rightful leader of Tibet.’
A wave of bowing swept through those already seated, while the remaining novices by the temple doors quickly shuffled on to the floor. The Abbot looked at Babu who sat with his hands outstretched, just managing to balance them on the huge armrests of the throne.
‘It is for you to decide, Your Holiness. The Chinese approach. Do we evacuate the monastery?’
Rega swung round towards the throne.
‘He is but a boy,’ he said in disgust. ‘How can he decide?’
‘Silence!’ the Abbot declared, raising a finger. ‘You have no place here any more.’
Rega’s cheeks flushed with anger and he went to protest, raising the Dharmachakra above his head, but the Abbot turned towards the sea of monks before them.
‘Silence as His Holiness speaks!’ he shouted. The noise in the temple dropped to nothing as each monk stared expectantly at Babu. The young boy’s eyes moved from one monk to the next in the endless sea of faces, before he finally spoke, his voice soft and high pitched.
‘We must leave,’ he said. ‘We must go as pilgrims to find sanctuary in the mountains. As your ancestors once did, when Geltang was first made.’
The Abbot nodded before turning back to the monks.
‘Take the treasure of Geltang and only what you need to survive,’ he ordered. Then, signalling for the temple doors to be opened wide, he stepped down from the throne. In a flurry of robes, every monk in the order got to his feet.
‘Now, my brothers, we must hurry.’
Chapter 56
THE SOLDIER STOOD
just below the ridge, the sights of his rifle centred on Luca’s chest.
‘Don’t shoot!’ Luca shouted, slowly raising his hands above his head. He’d taken a step towards the edge of the gulley when there was a muffled boom and a spray of loose snow shot towards him in a long, sweeping arc. As Luca threw himself back on to the ground, the soldier’s finger instinctively squeezed around the trigger.
There was a thunderous crack and a flame leaped from the end of the rifle. The bullet smacked into the snow just behind Luca’s shoulder, missing him by inches. The soldier was hugging the stock tighter into his shoulder, quickly taking aim once again, when a crack split the deep snow in front of him. It splintered into further cracks as the towering mass of the snow cornice jolted downwards, sending pressure waves fanning out across the entire width of the gulley.
The soldier rocked backwards, trying to steady his balance. The muzzle of his rifle dipped as the snow all around him started to move. The entire base of the cornice bulged outwards, collapsing under its own weight, and began tumbling down the face of the gulley. Its momentum wrenched snow from the farthest corners of the slope, dragging it down in a series of smaller slides.
The soldier flung himself forwards, his arms outstretched, desperately clawing against the streaming snow. Luca lunged towards him, trying to grab one of his hands, but the avalanche was now rolling downwards with an unstoppable force, and the soldier was swept from his grasp.
With a long rumbling boom, the wave of snow picked up everything in its path, tumbling down with terrifying speed. The snow was wet and heavy, melded together in vast chunks that spun ahead of the main flow like rubble. They bounced past the remaining soldiers, stretched out in single file along the length of the gulley.
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