Читать книгу Pyramid Asia - Ian Purdie - Страница 8

In a remote village in the mountains of central Tibet, an ancient spiritual rite was nearing conclusion. The monks from Sera Monastery had located the reincarnation of one of Tibet’s greatest spiritual masters. The seven-year-old boy had correctly selected the old master’s rosary beads, his cloak and finally his bowl, from amongst four similar objects. He had addressed one of the more elderly in the official party by his first name and recognised him as his old retainer.

Outside, across the valley spread a magnificent rainbow.

The boy had been waiting a long time for somebody to come and find him and as far as he was concerned they were late. He’d formed many attachments in the village and now he knew they would soon be gone forever. His purpose and his destiny had finally arrived.

The news of the discovery of the young tulku and his confirmation spread up the valley’s and away to Lhasa and beyond. The sacred syllables ‘om mani padme hum’ danced playfully in the clear mountain air. Giant trumpets blasted out guttural bass notes which echoed around the mountains to the accompaniment of hand symbols and yak bells.

After the initial celebrations were concluded, it was getting late and the senior monks wanted to begin the long journey back to their Monastery with their prized discovery.

Meanwhile, not far away, a man was having his throat cut in a well-lit cave. The executioner was rough and even though the blade was sharp, it was a messy spectacle that Irfan did not want to witness.

He had known all the three traitors personally. When he first heard they were the betrayers, Irfan was sure it must be a mistake. But then the evidence began to mount until even he was overwhelmed beyond reasonable doubt.

Watching Omar die tore at his heart strings. The others had died trying to escape once they’d been found. Omar was asleep in bed with his wife when his executioners arrived before dawn. Besides losing a few teeth and suffering two black eyes, he was captured easily.

At the final moment Irfan looked away.

He’d never expected to be witnessing an execution. Until three weeks earlier he’d been a humble drug courier. His job had been to lead a pack of mules along the ridge then down to the river several villages beyond the mountains in the direction of the rising sun. Once he got to the river he unloaded the cargo and gave it to Omar. He got paid when he returned with the mules. Irfan had been doing this now for nearly five years and had never witnessed any violence. He didn’t have a gun or any weapons other than his knife, which had never been used on anything more dangerous than a tangled bridle.

Now it suddenly looked like he needed to find a new vocation very quickly, ideally working for a company that specialized in helicopter rescues for its new recruits. The cave behind him was packed with heroin. It had been building up since operations came to an abrupt halt almost a month before.

But that wasn’t the worst aspect of the disasters unfolding around him. The gentle mountain breezes were whispering that they were all wanted men. Rumours abounded, like diseases in a dirty hospital. Irfan was worried that whatever he’d caught might keep him from ever seeing his wife and family in Kashmir again.

He had no idea how old he was. His mother had died when he was too young to remember and his father was a soldier fighting another war somewhere else. It was even possible that Irfan might be about to find himself fighting against his own father, if the rumors were correct and the military had been alerted and was moving against them.

A sudden, large explosion backed up that theory. The cave shook and dust filled the illuminated air. Irfan could smell fear. A lot of it was his own.

He had only wanted to make some money. He didn’t use heroin himself but if other people wanted it, why shouldn’t he get rich helping them get it? As far as he was concerned, he wasn’t doing anything wrong.

He believed in Allah. And if it was Allah’s will, he was happy to be sending poison to destroy the enemies of Islam. Allah had provided him with an opportunity to work as a holy warrior, and look after his family at the same time.

There was another explosion close to the mouth of the cave. The blast wave knocked him and everyone else off their feet. At that point self-preservation over rode any other impulse. Everyone panicked. Irfan got to his feet and ran to the cave mouth, fearing he would be buried alive.

Outside, the chill of early evening was waiting. His decision to run to the left was vindicated by an enormous explosion which destroyed everything more than ten metres away to his right.

Irfan was blown forward. He somersaulted twice and rolled up onto his feet. He didn’t look back.

Merciful Allah had granted him another chance.

As he sprinted downhill, another explosion slammed into the cave behind him. A few small rocks caught his back, but otherwise he was uninjured.

Behind him the sounds of men screaming and general destruction grew more distant as he ran. He was on a downward slope and there were few obstacles.

Suddenly the moon appeared from behind a mountain.

He could see.

That meant he could be seen. He stopped abruptly and backed up into the shadows.

In the stillness he heard a sound like distant jungle drums beating out a rhythm that morphed into a sound he’d only ever heard on television. Helicopters. Troops were coming.

He forgot about being seen in the moonlight and began running with a renewed sense of panic.

He ran for a long time. The sound of helicopters receded behind him, but he could hear gunshots. Once again, he was swallowed by the welcoming darkness as the frequency of gunshots diminished to less than what he would have expected at a birthday party or wedding. On and on, into the night he ran. He thanked Allah with all the breath he could spare.

Time was less important. Distance was the most important thing as he sprinted onwards in his own private marathon. He ran all night, pausing only occasionally to drink from a river that was running down the mountainside with him.

In the irrelevance of time, the darkness slowly loosened its grip on his surroundings until sunlight flooded down onto the landscape.

Still he ran. His aching legs threatened to mutiny beneath him. He ignored the threats. They were no match for the reality he had left behind.

The sun rose into a clear blue sky but he continued to run. Run and drink. He thanked Allah for the cold mountain water which his body warmed and returned to the earth as sweat. It was no longer a sprint. His legs accepted the compromise but replaced their threats with pain. Pain was good. It meant he was still alive.

Suddenly a structure. Shelter and rest.

Allah be praised!

It was definitely a human dwelling. There had to be somebody nearby. Hopefully somebody with food they didn’t mind sharing.

It was a lot to expect, but Irfan had a lot of faith. He was faithful to the point that even if he starved to death, he would believe it happened because Allah loved him.

The front door was a large slab of shale. Irfan didn’t knock. Had there been a doorbell, he wouldn’t have rung it. Emergencies like the one his life had become precluded such gentile considerations.

The place was empty. It looked like it had been empty for a long time as Irfan searched for food. There was none.

Even so, he fell to his aching knees, intending to give thanks for being alive. But before he could enunciate his first grateful sentence, sleep replaced prayer and oblivion replaced gratitude.

* * *

Outside, the sun shone but inside, the only ruling principle was exhaustion masquerading as lovable kittens delivering Ramadan blessings to the squirrels in the park.

He was dreaming!

Some people, released from Earthly limitations, are blessed to never wake up. Irfan didn’t join their ranks on that day.

Reluctantly he awoke. Instantly he regretted everything.

The house hadn’t collapsed on top of him and nobody was blowing anything up or trying to kill him.

That was a relief, but his legs were reminding him they’d made threats and the threats had been ignored. The air was fresh and the light warmed his toes.

The so-called room he slept in was little more than a lean-to against the side of a hill. Irfan arose. He forced his legs to hold him upright. They needed to get him to some food.

Run! Run? Well maybe just try to walk fast. Food would come in time. The most important thing was distance but time was now the major secondary concern. In his starving brain he hoped more time would mean more food.

Outside the freshly re-abandoned lean-to, Irfan moved towards the sunrise. Birds were singing and a gentle breeze animated a carpet of dandelions and buttercups dancing peacefully at his feet. He reached down and scooped up a handful. The flowers looked a lot better than they tasted. The second mouthful was less shocking. Fortunately the river, still running, was nearby. A few scoops of its highly athletic contents washed most of the bitter taste from his mouth.

Lacking other options, he stumbled forward. The lengthening shadows attested to the fact it was already late afternoon. By nightfall he was many more kilometres away from the cave. He felt marginally safer. The air was no longer polluted by the smell of high explosives and his friend’s burnt flesh.

Just after sunset, he encountered a village. It was dirty and dilapidated. The greatest danger its peaceful façade threatened, was either from typhoid or leprosy. It looked like a good place to rot. Most of it already had.

Irfan was past being hungry. His body had realised the futility of screaming for food and given up. His stomach had joined his legs in a state of silent shock.

After executing his nearest approximation of a nonchalant stroll into town, he stepped into a tea house. Four men sucking on a hookah regarded the latest arrival in their domain. Irfan avoided eye contact, not interested in finding out if relaxed also meant friendly. He didn’t need friends, he needed food.

Once again, he silently thanked Allah, this time for the contents of his pocket. He had been paid and was cashed up. He ordered food and found himself a deserted table in one of the establishment’s darker corners.

The food arrived! Praise be to Allah!!!

He continued to thank Allah for his good fortune, between gulps.

After food, Irfan needed sleep. The establishment’s representative behind the counter agreed to furnish him with a bed for the night. He was escorted out the back and shown into a small room.

* * *

“My archaeology professor is doing cartwheels!” declared an excited young Chinese woman on a university campus far away. “He’s claiming the greatest archaeological discovery of the 21^st Century!”

“Is it the real Oracle of Singh Ma?” asked Tashi when he and Ping met outside the library as they did every Tuesday afternoon.

“We can’t exactly claim that to be 100% true. However he says it’s the oldest representation ever found and its origins have yet to be determined. It really could be the actual Oracle of Singh Ma!”

“But wasn’t that just a dream some monk had?”

“Yes, originally. But then it was said to have manifested in one of the monasteries. One afternoon, all the monks were bored and threatening to boycott meditation unless something concrete happened. And it did.”

“Is this supposed to be some kind of fairy tale or something?”

“No, it’s a legend. It was recorded by the monks in several monasteries and it’s still taken seriously by some of the more obscure sects of Buddhism.”

“So when do I get it back?”

“It’s not that simple. Professor Guo wants to talk with you tomorrow morning. I told him you’d be available. I hope that’s OK.”

“I’ve got lectures until 10 and then I’ve got a half hour break. What does he want to talk about?”

“He wants to know exactly where you found it and how long you’ve had it. He’s very excited!”

* * *

Irfan awoke. His legs skipped threatening and ached. He’d run too far, too fast and the rest of his body was also complaining.

Outside a noisy procession, containing the young master who’d been confirmed as a tulku, was passing through the village.

There was a jug of water in the room on an ancient sideboard. Irfan splashed some onto his face and then slipped out into the teahouse. It was deserted as he made his way out onto the street.

He was able to attach himself to the tail end of the procession which easily absorbed him as if by osmosis. The procession wound its way out of the village and into the countryside.

After another day, getting further away from the cave, he found himself setting up tents then preparing vegetables, and finally serving up food. Eventually he also got fed. It was a wonderful arrangement as far as he was concerned.

That night he was allowed to curl up beside a smouldering fire and the next morning was included in a pre-dawn breakfast before continuing with the procession.

All things are impermanent and the monks eventually reached their destination after nine days of travelling.

Irfan needed to keep moving. He didn’t accept the promise of a bed, up the winding path that led to the monastery. Instead he made his excuses and departed from the monks as the path forked, offering a clear choice which Irfan had already made.

It was the wrong choice, for everyone. The young tulku had been removed from the head of the procession two days before its eventual arrival. The senior monks noticed an influx of mysterious young men pretending to be monks and realised they were being infiltrated. They put the tulku’s young retainer on the throne and carried him into the waiting arms of the Chinese authorities who arrested him before his feet had touched the cobblestones.

The young master was disguised as one of the servants and smuggled into a kitchen. For the next eight weeks, he was kept in hiding and moved between the monastery’s many hidden rooms as the Chinese authorities systematically beat and tortured their way towards him through a protective crowd of devoted, but otherwise helpless monks.

Irfan’s choice was similarly ill fated. After another two days travelling alone, he was walking along a paved road when a police car pulled up beside him.

“Where are you going?’ asked an unpleasant looking Chinese policeman.

Irfan didn’t bother to answer. He jumped over a small ditch and began running. Behind him he heard the policeman ordering him to stop. That merely spurred him to run faster.

A shot rang out and he felt a stinging pain in his left leg, as he fell forward onto his face.

At last one of his legs had backed up the threats.