‘Finished your tea?’ said the Major suddenly. ‘Come and have a look at the temple, hey? Worth seeing, you know. Well worth seeing.’
It didn’t cross Theodore’s mind to refuse. The dark was no longer ominous in his company, the pagan powers no longer dangerous. At the cell door the Major slipped a pair of thick felt pads onto his boots and began to walk with a movement like a skater’s.
‘Might as well give the floor a bit of a polish while I’m going my rounds,’ he said.
‘That’s clever,’ said Theodore.
‘Not my own idea. Copied it from a lama I met at Ghoom.’
‘Did you make the windmills that drive the prayer-wheels outside?’
‘Yes, yes indeed. Lamas weren’t all that keen on it. Wheel’s sacred, you know. Never see a barrow in Tibet. Bit uneasy about using wheels, even when it’s to drive prayer-wheels, and some of them not that keen on having the prayer-wheels turn of their own accord – can’t acquire virtue by turning them yourself, hey?’
‘One side has stopped turning.’
‘I know, I know. Storm last winter, you know, and my old eyes aren’t up to mending it. Never mind. All material endeavour must fail, you know. It’s all illusion. Not that I wouldn’t like to get it mended. Dear me. Now this fellow here, he’s one of the chos-skyong – that means Spirit Kings . . .’
The temple was quite small, and filled with the presence of the gold-faced Buddha. The gold was real gold, Theodore decided, and the glitter of the idol’s ornaments sparkled from real jewels. Though the temple was packed with objects – so much so that there seemed little room for worshippers – these all had the air of being precisely placed in relation to the central statue and became part of the Buddha’s presence. Even the line of hideous, grimacing, weapon-waving demons in front of which the Major had halted were part of the grammar of the place, with a meaning of their own in the context of the smooth metal face and the eternal smile. Theodore could sense that, though he didn’t know the grammar in question and didn’t want to.
‘Could you teach me Tibetan?’ he said.
‘I don’t know about that,’ said the Major. ‘Why do you want to learn it?’
‘Oh . . . well . . . I like to be able to talk to people, I suppose.’
‘Much better keep silence. Much better. Still, I dare say I could. Started writing a dictionary when I first came here . . . Tell me something, me boy – have I got this fellow clean?’
Theodore inspected the Spirit King with different eyes. Parts of the monster gleamed with steady polishing, but elsewhere a cranny held a cobweb or the whole surface of a dishlike object which the monster carried in one of his several hands was mildewed with ancient dust. There had been a note of anxiety in the Major’s voice.
‘He’s fine,’ said Theodore. ‘Just a couple of places . . . would you like me to give them a rub?’
‘If you would,’ said the Major, gruffly. ‘Don’t mind telling you I’ve been fretted about this since my eyes began to go. Worked out a routine, you see, a system of work so I can keep everything spick and span as a gun-carriage, but I’m not such a fool that I don’t know I’m bound to miss places. Oracle-priest, he’s very nice about it, pretends not to notice . . .’
‘Aren’t you the priest in charge?’
‘Dear me, no. Dear me. I’m not the oracle-priest. Shouldn’t care to have that happen to me. No, no, I’m only the cleaner . . . Now, you’ll find a ladder under that hanging on the back wall and I’ll get you my brush . . .’
For an hour or more Theodore climbed about among the idols brushing and polishing, while the Major pottered around on the floor, muttering prayers, commenting on the attributes of the idols, filling the innumerable little lamps that glowed on almost every flat surface, or pulling from a shelf a loose-leafed sacred book to show Theodore its intricate strange pictures and patterns. Far off, like a clock striking, a gong began to boom with a steady beat.
‘We’ll pack it in now,’ said the Major. ‘He’ll be here any moment and I like things shipshape when he comes.’
‘Who?’
‘Oracle-priest. First rate young man – would have made a good soldier, I sometimes think. Can’t say how grateful I am to you, young fellow.’
‘Shall I come back tomorrow and do some more? And you could start teaching me Tibetan.’
‘Have to think about that. Now, stow that ladder where you found it and come and give me a heave on the other door . . .’
The sun did not shine into the temple, but the mid-morning brightness was strong enough to lay a gleaming path across the polished floor as the doors opened. The gleam darkened with a shadow, and through the widening gap paced a monk wearing the usual russet robe and a tall pointed hat made of silvery cloth. The monk knelt before the Buddha and bowed till the tip of his hat touched the floor. The Major and Theodore, each standing by a leaf of the doors, watched him in silence for a full two minutes until he rose, removed his hat and turned. He gave some sort of blessing to the Major, who answered him in Tibetan, beaming and anxious; then he turned to Theodore.
‘Welcome to my temple,’ he said in Mandarin.
He was a square-built man of about forty, smooth-faced and athletic-looking.
‘Thank you for letting me see it,’ said Theodore awkwardly. ‘It is very interesting.’
‘Of course. But there are times when I’d be glad to be somewhere else. I hear you were attacked in the valley of the Jade River. There are notorious bandits all along that way – Lolo, very unreliable. We never travelled through there in groups of less than ten, all armed. But that track leads up to Starve-all Pass and through the ranges well north of here. How did you come to be right down on the Jade River gorge again?’
Theodore explained. The priest nodded and asked more questions. He spoke Mandarin in a quite different way from the Lama Amchi, with a better accent but much more erratic grammar. The Lama Amchi spoke as though he had learnt the language systematically, from books, whereas this man had evidently picked it up in a series of smatterings. Once or twice he used earthy idioms, or words that didn’t belong to Mandarin at all but to Miao or languages Theodore didn’t know. He was very friendly and easy to talk to.
‘How do you know the country so well?’ asked Theodore. ‘Were you born there?’
‘No indeed. From the monastery wall I could show you the house where I was born, on the far side of the valley. But my father kept a team of yaks and used to trade into China, and he brought me up to that life. I would be at it still if I hadn’t been chosen to become the oracle.’
‘The oracle?’
Theodore had guessed that he was talking to the oracle-priest, but had assumed that his function was to perform some special sort of mumbo-jumbo with an idol. There was something shocking about this bluff, earthy man’s casual announcement that he himself was that idol.
‘Yes indeed,’ he said. ‘That’s me. You wouldn’t think at it to look at me, would you? And I’ll tell you another thing that might surprise you – it’s a lot harder work than driving yaks.’
Mrs Jones was in a bad temper that evening, and took it out on Lung. Theodore had heard a little thunderstorm grumbling away below the monastery during the afternoon, but hadn’t realized that Mrs Jones had been lower down still. Her escort, none of whom spoke any language she knew, had insisted on keeping to well-worn paths and on coming home the moment the first drops fell.
Lung endured her malice very well and teased her gravely in return. They were both very interested in Theodore’s meeting with Major Price-Evans.