Downtime - Marc Platt [18]
Suddenly she blurted out, ‘My father, Edward Waterfield.
Is he at Det-sen? Do you know? If he is, please tell me!’
The old monk returned her stare. Slowly he raised one finger to his lips in a gesture of silence. Then the staff swung away and his body followed. It tapped its way across the floor and he moved after it, clinging to the upper end for fear of being left behind. She was certain that the staff was leading him.
Sonam was still turning the prayer wheel as she watched her employer. Victoria took a deep breath. ‘Can we go now please?’
‘Food first,’ replied the Sherpani. ‘I’ve made special potato bread.’
‘All right. But then please can we go?’ From outside the gompa, Victoria could hear the tap-tap-tap of the old monk’s stick as it led him clockwise around the walls of the lamasery as was the custom.
Once they had crossed Nang La Pass into Tibet, it was another day’s walk to their destination. Victoria had hardly spoken and the others seemed to catch her mood.
At last, she began to recognize the terrain over which she had repeatedly flown: a long valley strewn with scree and at its head, a mountain with its peak cracked like a dead volcano.
Fifty years before, when she had been only ten years younger, she had stood at the broken gates of the monastery and watched that mountain throbbing with unearthly energy. A livid mixture of plasma and lava had belched from the shattered summit, pouring down the slopes as if the wounded earth was casting the suppurating filth of the invader out of its system. The Doctor and Jamie had stood beside her and she had wept because the Great Intelligence, whose death was causing so much violence on the mountain, had been inside her body too. But she had been raised not to talk of that. A lady always maintained her self-composure in company – no matter how great the violation.
The party rounded the mountain and looked down into the next valley. The monastery of Det-sen lay on the lower slopes of the next mountain, a cluster of tiny grey buildings, more like a fortress than the coloured gompas she had visited along the route.
The track leading down was in poor repair. Twice it vanished completely under landslides that had not been cleared away. Tundu and Sonam exchanged worried glances as they struggled to guide the yak over the loose rock. The old monk sat tight on his steed, clinging to its curved horns as it lurched back and forth.
As they approached the monastery, they could see that the ornate roof was in a bad state too. There was no sign of life apart from the tattered prayer flags that fluttered from the broken walls. Victoria struggled to calm her nerves. She could not believe that all this had been in vain.
Suddenly there was a cacophony of drums and cymbals and deep horns. The massive gates of Det-sen swung wide and a group of monks robed in red issued forth. They stood at either side of the entrance, waiting as the raucous din continued.
Victoria’s little group stopped opposite the gates and stared as a single line of ancient lamas with crested yellow hats moved forward out of the inner courtyard towards them. Each lama carried a stick which tap-tap-tapped ahead of him. Like the monk who had travelled from Lukla, all of the lamas of Det-sen were blind.
Two of the monks came forward, and with great veneration helped the old man from his place on the yak. It was obvious that all this ceremony was in his honour. He allowed them to lead him towards the monastery and the line of blind lamas parted for him to pass.
When he reached the gates, he signalled and one of the young monks inclined his head as he received instruction. As the old monk passed on into the courtyard, the young man approached Victoria and bowed.
‘The Abbot Thonmi asks that you be brought into the monastery as his honoured guests.’
The room that they gave Victoria was austere, but comfortable enough; certainly better than the cell she had spent time in during her previous visit.